THE 


MEMOIR     AND     WRITINGS 


VOL.    I, 


THE 


MEMOIR   AID   WRITINGS 


JAMES    HANDASYD  PERKINS. 


EDITED  BY 
WILLIAM    HENRY    CHANNING. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 

VOL.    I. 


BOSTON : 
WM.    CROSBY    AND    H.    P.  NICHOLS. 

CINCINNATI: 
TRUEMAN    &   SPOFFORD. 

1851.        * 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S50,  by 

STEPHEN    H.   PERKINS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF  AND  COMPANY, 

PRINTERS   TO   THE   UNIVERSITY. 


vJ 

CONTEXTS. 


SKETCHES  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  J.  H.  PERKINS. 

I.     YOUTH.  — 1810-1831. 

Parentage  and  Birth,  1.  Childhood  in  Boston  and  Brookline,  2. 
Lancaster,  4.  Sports,  7.  School,  Mr.  S.  P.  Miles,  13.  Exeter  and 
Round-Hill,  15.  Authorship,  —  My  Aunt  Esther,  The  Nashua,  The 
Young  Soldier,  My  Old  Felt  Hat,  19.  Literature,  27.  Nahant,  29. 
Mercantile  Life,  30.  Spiritual  Struggles,  31.  Voyage  to  England, 
35.  London,  Fanny  Kemble,  &c.,  43.  The  West  Indies,  Slavery, 
&c.,  46.  Return  and  "  Stepping  Westward,"  56. 

II.     MANHOOD.  — 1832  -  1849. 

Cincinnati,  58.  Law  Studies,  59.  Society,  60.  Correspondence, 
61.  The  Emigrant's  Lesson,  72.  Inward  Conflicts,  73.  Betrothal 
and  Correspondence,  74.  Marriage,  85.  Withdrawal  from  the  Law, 
87.  Editorship,  89.  Rules  of  Study,  92.  Life  at  Porneroy,  97.  Lit- 
erary Plans  and  Horticulture,  106.  A  Morning  Walk,  108.  Social 
Position  and  Influence,  110.  Ministry  at  Large,  113.  Liberality,  120. 
Prison  Reforms,  124.  Christian  Statesmanship,  134.  Washington, 
135.  Agrarianism,  136.  Dangers  of  the  West,  146.  Prospects  of  the 
West,  Christian  Republicanism,  153.  Masses  and  Individuals,  160. 
Associations,  a  Vital  Form  of  Social  Action,  165.  Free  Institutions, 
172.  Representatives  and  Constituents,  180.  Socialism,  182.  Anti- 
slavery,  189.  Education,  Public  Schools,  208.  Cincinnati  College 
and  Cincinnati  Observatory,  210.  Private  School,  211.  Female  Edu- 
cation, 221.  Young  Men's  Mercantile  Library  Association,  242. 
Historical  Societies  of  Cincinnati  and  Ohio,  and  Historical  Writings, 
243.  ^Esthetics,  Powers,  245.  Poetry,  253.  Public  Lectures,  254 
The  Preacher,  255.  Views  of  Religion,  272.  Relations  with  the 
First  Congregational  Society,  276.  Union  of  Christians,  278.  Plan 
of  a  Christian  Society,  2'Jl.  Home  Life,  296.  Character  and  Influ- 
ence, 303.  Death  and  Testimonials  of  Friends,  306  -  320. 


VI  CONTENTS. 

VERSES. 

PAGE 

NEW  ENGLAND           ........  323 

To  A  LADY,  wno  WONDERED  WHY  SHE  WAS  LOVED        .  325 

SONG,  "  O,  MERRY,  MERRY  HE  THE  DAY"          .         .        .  326 

CHANGE  NOT 329 

POVERTY  AND  KNOWLEDGE         ......  331 

HOME 333 

THE  MOTHER  AND  CHILD 335 

To  A  CHILD 337 

NOVEMBER  AND  MAY 310 

TRUTH 312 

To  ONE  FAR  AWAY 311 

ANGEL  MEETINGS  ........  3-18 

A  COUNTRY  CLERGYMAN 319 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  CHILD       .         .         .         .  351 

TASSO  IN  PRISON 353 

MARQUETTE     .........  355 

To  A  FLOWER 359 

COME,  LEST  THE  LARK           ......  3G1 

BY  EARTH  HEMMED  IN 363 

HYMN 364 

THE  STORM-SHAKEN  WINTER 365 

THE  VOICE  THAT  BADE  THE  DEAD  ARISE        .         .         .  366 

THE  PAST  AND  THE  FUTURE     ......  367 

THAT  HAPPY  LAND 370 

INVOCATION 371 

SPIRITUAL  PRESENCE      .......  372 

TALES. 

MELANCTHON  AND  LUTHER         ......  375 

LORD   OSSORY 381 

DORA  McCiiAE 388 

THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC      .......  406 

A  WEEK  AMONG  THE  "  KNOBS  " 438 

THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT 450 

THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER     ......  460 

THE  KINDNESS  THAT  KILLS    ......  469 

CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT    .         .  484 

LIFE  IN  CINCINNATI  IN  1840          .....  499 

THE  LOST  CHILD .508 

THE  PIoLE  IN  MY  POCKET     .         .         .         .         .         .  517 

THE  ONE  TRUE  CONVERT                                                        .  521 


SKETCHES 


LIFE   OF   JAMES  H.  PERKINS 


TO    THE 

FIKST   CONGREGATIONAL  SOCIETY  OF  CINCINNATI, 

AND 

TO   THE   CIECLE   OF  OUR  FRIENDS, 

THIS    MEM01K    OF 

JAMES    H.    PERKINS 

IS   DEDICATED,    WITH    AFFECTIONATE   RESPECT, 

BY 

WILLIAM    H.    CHANNING. 

SEPTEMBER  21.  1S50. 


TO    THE 


FRIENDS   OF  JAMES   H.   PERKINS. 


OUR  friend  was  a  man  so  free  from  pretension,  that 
informal  sketches  of  his  life  seem  alone  to  befit  his  char- 
acter ;  and  all  that  I  have  here  attempted  is  to  give  an 
off-hand  outline  of  his  genius  and  growth  as  I  observed 
them,  filled  up  with  extracts  from  his  writings,  and 
memorials  supplied  by  others.  But  so  interesting  has  it 
proved  to  trace  his  spiritual  progress,  that  these  notices 
have  become  too  personal,  minute,  and  lengthened  out 
for  the  public  eye.  I  have  neither  leisure  nor  inclina- 
tion, however,  to  mend  my  work  ;  and  must  ask  you, 
pardoning  its  imperfections,  to  accept  this  memoir  as  a 
faithful  portrait  for  the  home  circle.  May  its  contem- 
plation at  once  elevate  and  humble  us,  renew  our  aspi- 
rations, quicken  our  watchfulness,  and  rouse  us  to  good 
works.  Biographies  should  rarely  be  attempted  ;  but  if 
written  at  all,  they  should  be  TRUE.  Otherwise  they 
are  living  lies,  and  do  but  spread  by  contagion  the  death- 
in-life  of  self-deceit  and  hypocrisy.  So  far  as  I  have 
gone,  I  have  declared  the  simple  truth  ;  and  yet  with 
reverent  affection  have  I  passed  by  in  silence  our  friend's 


XU  TO    THE    FRIENDS    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

deepest  struggles,  —  for  only  he  could  so  have  told  them 
as  to  leave  a  full  impression  of  the  truth.  The  clew  to 
their  explanation  is  to  be  found  in  the  inheritance  of  a 
morbid  temperament.  How  nobly,  after  all,  did  the  spirit 
triumph  !  Death  is  the  great  emancipator  for  the  really 
earnest  ;  and  on  what  ever-widening  spheres  of  useful- 
ness has  this  fellow-mortal  and  fellow- immortal  assuredly 
entered  !  May  we  meet  him  there  !  God  bless  him  ! 
God  bless  us  all  ! 

"  Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  he  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  haseness  we  would  hide? 
No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

"  Shall  he  for  whose  applause  we  strove, 
We  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame, 
And  we  be  lessened  in  his  love  ? 

"  We  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death ; 
The  dead  shall  see  us  through  and  through. 

"  Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
Witli  larger,  other  eyes  than  ours, 
To  make  allowance  for  us  all."* 

W.  H.  C 

*  Tennvson's  "In  IMemoriam." 


SKETCHES 


LIFE   OF  JAMES   H.  PERKINS 


I. 

YOUTH. 

1810-1831. 

JAMES  HANDASYD  PERKINS  was  the  youngest  child 
of  Samuel  G.  Perkins  and  Barbara  Higginson,  both  of 
Boston,  Massachusetts,  and  was  born  on  the  31st  of 
July,  1810. 

The  first  image  that  rises  is  of  a  bright-eyed  boy, 
with  dark,  curling  hair,  olive  skin,  and  slight  figure,  hov- 
ering about  an  aged  nurse,  who  seemed  to  have  sole 
charge  of  him.  "  Aunt  Esther,"  —  as  he  used  to  call 
her,  with  form  bent  by  age  and  crippled  by  rheumatism, 
with  face  brown  as  parchment,  seamed  by  wrinkles,  and 
utterly  ugly  but  for  the  love  that  illumined  it,  so  deaf 
that  only  shouting  directly  in  her  ear  could  carry  mean- 
ing to  the  brain,  slow-moving,  slow-thoughted,  but  pa- 
tient and  inexhaustibly  kind  Aunt  Esther,  —  how  she 
reappears  from  the  past,  with  that  half  playful,  half  plain- 

VOL.  i.  1 


LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 


live,  gypsy-looking  boy  hanging  round  her  in  the  lonely 
nursery  !  Lonely,  I  say,  for  the  impression  left  of  those 
earliest  days  is  of  a  very  isolated  childhood.  The  elder 
brother  was  away  from  home  at  a  boarding-school,  and 
soon  went  to  Europe  to  complete  his  training  in  Germany 
and  France.  Of  the  sisters,  two  had  already  entered 
society,  and  were  engaged  amidst  the  constantly  recurring 
interests  of  cultivated  life,  while  two  younger  were  ab- 
sorbed in  perfecting'their  education  and  accomplishments. 
The  mother  appears  in  memory,  as  from  secluded  dis- 
tance, a  person  of  stately  beauty,  seated  beneath  curtains 
on  a  sofa,  in  turban  and  elegant  attire,  entertaining  an 
admiring  circle  with  eloquence  and  wit ;  while  the  father, 
seemingly  a  giant  in  figure  as  lie  towered  above  us,  alter- 
nately cheerful  and  stern,  but  to  children  invariably  con- 
siderate and  kind,  comes  in  only  at  intervals,  when 
released  from  cares  of  commerce  or  the  engrossing 
pleasures  of  horticulture.  So  that  "Aunt  Esther"  and 
I  seem  to  have  been  James's  constant  companions. 

Dwelling  in  the  same  block  in  Boston  during  the 
winter,  and  within  a  short  half-mile  of  one  another  at 
Brookline  in  summer,  related  by  close  family  ties,  as 
our  mothers  were  sisters,  separated  in  age  by  but  two 
months,  James  being  the  junior,  both  guarded  from  pro- 
miscuous intercourse  with  children,  kept  much  at  home, 
and  with  just  enough  of  likeness  and  unlikeness  in  dispo- 
sition to  make  us  congenial,  we  were  from  the  cradle 
almost  like  twin-brothers.  Together  we  watched  the 
falling  flakes,  measured  with  delight  the  swelling  banks, 
shovelled  away  the  snow,  piled  it  up  into  monsters,  and 
battered  them  with  balls  ;  together  we  wandered  in 
the  woods,  gathering  flowers  or  watching  the  birds  and 
squirrels  at  their  frolics,  chasing  our  boats  along  the 


YOUTH. 


rippling  brook,  strolling  under  the  barberry-hedges,  with 
their  yellow  blossoms  and  scarlet  fruit,  or  eying  the 
gardener  wistfully  as  he  plucked  luscious  grapes  and 
nectarines  in  the  hot-house  ;  together  we  conned  our 
Latin  grammar,  or  worked  out  our  sums  on  the  slate,  in- 
terweaving a  border  of  grotesque  figures,  at  Mr.  Greeley's 
school,  and  in  play-hours  picked  up  stray  darts  of  the 
older  boys,  who,  with  paper  helmets  and  shields  covered 
with  Gorgon-heads,  fought  over  the  battles  of  the  Iliad  ; 
together  we  pored  over  volumes  of  cavalry  exercise, 
illustrated  by  drawings  of  horses  in  every  conceivable 
attitude,  of  costumes  and  trappings  used  in  the  French 
armies,  and  by  pictures  of  Napoleon's  battles,  or  stag- 
gered under  the  heavy  cap  and  sabre  worn  by  his  father 
as  commander  of  the  huzzars  ;  together  we  communed 
with  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  lone  island,  sailed  with 
Sinbad  on  his  perilous  voyages,  wandered  with  Gulliver 
at  Lilliputias  and  Brobdignags,  revelled  in  the  piquant 
wonders  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  felt  our  hearts  glow 
with  heroic  ardor  as  Mentor  encouraged  Telemachus, 
followed  Christian  and  Christiana  through  the  perils  and 
pains  of  their  pilgrimage,  or  enjoyed  more  home-like 
pleasures  while  we  read  aloud  Sanford  and  Merton,  the 
Children  of  the  Abbey,  Evenings  at  Home,  the  Par- 
ent's Assistant,  Popular  Tales,  and  Berquin's  Children's 
Friend  ;  together,  rarest  joy  of  all,  we  peopled  the 
world  of  fancy  round  us  with  Olympic  Deities,  Genii, 
and  Fairies,  built  airy  castles  for  our  future  lives,  looked 
abroad  over  the  wide  prairies  of  romance,  and,  in  a  word, 
exchanged  in  unstinted  measure  a  boy's  full  life  of  hope 
and  enterprise. 

One  incident  so  prominently  recurs  to  mind,  as  illus- 
trative  of  my  cousin's   character,  that,   though   it  may 


4  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

appear  trifling,  I  am  impelled  to  record  it.  One  after- 
noon, before  school-time,  we  were  tilting  upon  a  heavy 
piece  of  timber,  quite  unequally  balanced,  James  and  I 
being  together  on  one  end  and  several  boys  on  the  other, 
when,  by  way  of  trick,  they  at  a  signal  sprang  off  as  we 
rose  in  the  air,  —  meaning  merely  to  loss  us  into  the  dust 
when  we  struck  the  ground.  Unfortunately,  James's 
ankle  came  beneath  the  beam,  and  while  I  bounded  up 
he  lay  prostrate.  His  leg  was  broken.  Never  shall  1 
forget  the  sad  smile  and  soft  gaze  of  his  brilliant  yet  mel- 
ancholy eyes,  as,  without  a  tear  or  a  word  of  complain- 
ing or  reproach,  that  little  boy  was  borne  upon  men's 
shoulders  home.  In  the  fortitude,  stern  yet  sweet,  with 
which  he  met  that  injury,  wrought  not  of  purpose,  but 
by  his  fellows'  thoughtlessness,  I  seem  to  see  an  omen 
of  his  earthly  course. 

Some  two  years  now  passed,  during  which  we  were 
separated,  James  having  spent  the  intervening  period  in 
Boston  and  Waltham,  and  I  at  Lancaster,  Massachu- 
setts, to  which  picturesque  town  he,  too,  was  afterward 
sent,  that  he  might  have  the  advantages  of  excellent 
instruction  and  the  sympathizing  oversight  of  relatives. 
Brightly  comes  up  again  the  summer  afternoon  of  his 
arrival.  I  took  him  to  a  hill,  commanding  a  wide  pros- 
pect across  meadows  tufted  with  elm-trees  which  skirted 
the  Nashua,  and  beyond,  a  rolling  country  with  Warhu- 
sett's  rounded  summit  swelling  blue  against  the  western 
sky  ;  and  there,  amid  the  sunset,  he  repealed  the  opening 
stanzas  of  Marmion.  He  had  found  this  stirring  talc  of 
border  warfare  on  his  mother's  table  before  leaving  home, 
and  it  had  so  enchanted  him,  that  long  passages  were 
imprinted  on  his  memory.  The  ringing  tones,  the  mu- 


YOUTH. 


sical  cadences,  the  kindling  eye  and  animated  gesture  of 
that  boy,  then  ten  years  old,  as,  with  head  bathed  in  the 
"yellow  lustre,"  he  stood  upon  the  hill-top,  chanting 
almost  those  verses,  present  to  me  an  ever-vivid  image 
of  his  poetic  enthusiasm. 

The  next  afternoon,  being  holiday,  was  spent  by  us 
alone  among  the  pine-woods  in  boyish  gossip,  he  pouring 
out  the  pent-up  memories  of  boarding-school  oppressions 
and  miseries,  of  boarding-school  stratagems  and  tricks, 
and  I  listening  with  the  tender  sympathy  of  a  child  who 
had  never  left  the  guarded  circuits  of  a  happy  home. 
Well  I  remember  that,  while  tickled  beyond  measure 
with  the  little  fellow's  spirit,  drollery,  shrewdness,  and 
endless  inventiveness,  I  was  pained  to  feel  —  though 
then  incapable  of  shaping  the  feeling  into  thought  — 
that  neglect  and  wrong  had  spotted  with  rust  the  once 
wholly  bright  links  of  his  affectionateness.  A  slight 
infusion  of  sarcasm  in  his  narratives  and  sketches,  spicy 
at  first  taste,  but  afterwards  bitter,  marked  the  sense  of 
half-pardoned  injustice.  Most  contagious,  however,  was 
his  fun,  as,  with  almost  Indian  gravity  on  his  expressive 
features,  the  chiselled  chin,  fine-cut  lips,  high,  thin  nose, 
and  black  eyes  glancing  under  straight  brows,  he  over- 
flowed in  a  stream  of  pithy  anecdotes,  quaint  fancies, 
and,  as  must  be  candidly  owned,  of  most  Munchausen- 
like  exaggerations.  But  far  more  exciting  in  interest 
was  his  fresh  vigor  of  thought.  He  had  read  much  and 
remembered  vividly;  he  had  observed  the  natural  world, 
and  was  full  of  faets  ;  above  all,  ever-wakeful  imagina- 
tion threw  around  words  and  actions  the  charm  of  sug- 
gestiveness  and  beauty.  Since  our  parting,  among  many 
companions  I  had  met  with  no  one  who  could  compare 
in  attractiveness  with  this  brilliant  boy.  Once  more  we 
1* 


LIFE    OF    JAMES    n.    PERKINS. 


plighted  our  vows  of  friendship,  and  became  ns  before 
inseparable  cronies,  —  cronies  so  exclusively,  indeed, 
that  \ve  had  often  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  our  playmates' 
somewhat  jealous  raillery  ;  for  genuine  democrats  as  they 
are,  spurning  all  bonds  but  of  their  own  imposing,  bovs 
are  still  scrupulous  courtiers  in  demanding  observance  of 
their  habitual  etiquette,  and  cronyship  violates  in  ;  de- 
gree the  indiscriminate  good-fellowship  that  is  the  natural 
tone  of  youthful  groups. 

It  is  not  meant  that  James  was  unsocial,  far  less  that 
be  was  haughty  or  moody  ;  for  at  that  period,  as  through 
life,  he  had  rare  conversational  gifts,  and  often  became 
the  centre  of  a  knot  of  listeners,  who,  though  older, 
larger,  stronger  than  he,  were  yet  constrained  to  feel  the 
charm  of  his  superior  talent,  as  he  narrated  or  invented 
tales,  recited  verses,  often  of  his  own  composing,  or 
amused  them  with  ingenious  discussions  and  humorous 
talk.  But  though  kindly  and  generous,  he  had  little  «aste 
for  violent  sports,  and  much  preferred  a  solitary  ramble 
with  a  friend  to  any  noisy  frolic.  Thus,  spite  of  jeers  or 
petty  persecutions,  we  were  cronies  ;  and  it  would  be 
hypocrisy  to  conceal  that  our  hours  of  amusement  al- 
ways first  present  themselves,  when  looking  backward  to 
those  bright  mountain-passes  of  our  early  years.  Is  not 
a  boy's  character  most  formed  and  his  mind  most  devel- 
oped, indeed,  in  seeming  idle  hours  ;  and  should  not  edu- 
cation be  moulded  on  the  hint  thus  given  by  nature,  that 
joy  was  meant  by  God  to  be  the  quickening  sunshine  of 
life's  spring-time  ?  Hut  not  to  philosophize,  James  and 
I  certainly  rejoiced  together  to  our  hearts'  content.  <  >ur 
gains  and  risks,  our  pleasures  and  perils,  were  in  com- 
mon ;  we  were  mutually  confidants,  guardians,  partners 
in  full.  How  impossible  it  is  to  convey  the  significance 


YOUTH.  7 

of  our  own  experience,  or  to  repeat  the  emphasis  which 
Providence  puts  upon  events  by  their  adaptation  to  our 
powers  and  needs  !  Yet  the  most  insignificant  of  those 
boyish  adventures  seems  now  to  have  been  prolific  in 
enthusiasm,  imagination,  thought,  courage,  honor  ;  and 
each  season  was  only  too  short  to  let  us  drink  our  fill  of 
healthful  excitement. 

When  southwest  winds,  laden  with  showers,  melted 
the  snows  accumulated  through  the  winter  in  the  woods, 
and  poured  them  into  the  Nashua,  and  the  river,  gathering 
up  its  might,  broke  its  already  loosened  fetters,  bearing 
the  heaped-up  fragments  over  the  meadows,  and  sweep- 
ing fences  or  even  bridges  in  its  course,  —  then,  what 
wild  rapture  was  it  to  watch  the  "  freshet "  !  We  stood 
in  twilight  under  the  leaden  sky,  and  followed  with  our 
eyes  the  floating  foam,  eddying  whirlpools,  and  grinding 
cakes,  the  broken  boughs,  rolling  trunks,  pieces  of  tim- 
ber or  wrecks  of  buildings,  —  perhaps  living  things,  a 
muskrat,  a  sheep,  a  cow,  struggling  to  reach  the  land, 
and  crawling  up  half-dead  with  cold  and  fright  upon  the 
bank,  where  the  back-water  spread  out  shallow  behind  a 
projecting  point  ;  we  listened  to  the  moaning  wind,  the 
crash  of  ice  and  logs,  and  the  hoarse  roaring  of  the  flood 
that  filled  the  air,  till  moonlight,  streaming  in  flashes 
through  the  scud,  wrought  metamorphoses  with  every 
touch,  and  gave  free  play  for  eye  and  thought  to  fill  the 
scene  with  wonders.  Much  I  fear  that  we  felt  more 
sympathy  with  the  rising  river,  in  its  turbulent  radicalism, 
than  with  the  farmer  mourning  the  disappearance  of  his 
boundaiy-marks.  And  it  would  be  long  to  tell  into 
what  meanings  of  reform  symbols  of  the  universal  law 
of  change,  thus  vividly  conceived  in  youth,  were  trans- 
muted amid  the  struggles  of  manhood  ! 


8  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

With  summer  suns  came  gardening.  Lucky  he  whose 
melons  first  burst  the  mould,  and,  pushing  off  their  caps, 
shot  forth  their  leaves  and  runners  ;  still  luckier  he,  who, 
watching  day  by  day  the  green  knob  beneath  the  blossom 
as  it  swelled  into  a  glossy,  mottled  globe,  by  tappings  of 
the  rind  and  scrutiny  of  the  shrunk  stem,  was  at  length 
satisfied  that  his  treasure  wa,s  ripe,  and  could  summon 
his  fellows  to  sit  around  him  in  the  shade,  while  with 
eager  knife  he  shared  the  crimson  slices.  James  and  I 
were  amateur  husbandmen,  too,  and  would  often  lend  a 
helping  hand  to  our  companions  among  the  farmers'  sons, 
in  hoeing  potato  and  corn  hills,  raking  up  windrows 
and  hay-cocks  in  the  meadows,  or  binding  sheaves  in  the 
grain-fields,  while  in  payment  for  our  services  they  were 
allowed  to  go  with  us  on  swimming  frolics,  to  dive, 
splash,  float,  or  plunge  for  white  stones  on  the  bottom  of 
the  transparent  Nashua.  In  due  season,  we  took  our 
baskets  on  our  arms  in  the  evening,  and  over  the  shrubby 
hills  gathered  the  whortleberry  and  blueberry,  or,  better 
still,  the  long,  plump  blackberry  from  its  trailing  vines, 
while  over  head  the  swooping  nighthawks  drew  our  eyes 
to  the  deep  sky,  where-,  fanning  slowly  upwards  or  falling 
in  swift  curves,  their  forms  were  darkly  drawn  upon  the 
rosy  clouds.  Then  came  the  orchard-harvest,  when 
sometimes  we  shook  down  and  gathered  the  apples  into 
red,  green,  and  yellow  heaps,  and  stood  by  the  crunch- 
ing cider-press,  through  straws  sucking  up  the  unfer- 
mented  juice,  or  sometimes  wandered  forth  on  foraging 
excursions,  —  with  most  primitive  license  as  to  owner- 
ship, stuffing  pockets,  hats,  bosoms,  with  fruit,  which 
was  stowed,  if  not  quite  mellow,  in  the  hay-mow.  In 
the  dusky  evenings,  we  built  fires  in  our  ovens  under 
the  sand-banks,  and  roasted  ears  of  corn,  which  I  can- 


YOUTH. 


didly  own  we  pilfered  from  the  nearest  Geld.  And  when 
autumn  winds  and  frost  whirled  away  the  gorgeous  leaves, 
and  rattled  the  gaping  burrs  and  shells,  we  filled  our 
bags  with  chestnuts,  walnuts,  hazelnuts,  and  spread  the 
butternuts  to  dry  upon  the  garret  floor.  What  overflow- 
ing generosity  do  the  opulent  bounties  of  the  natural 
world  teach  to  the  boy,  who  is  not  trained  by  drudging 
toil  and  penury  to  premature  prudence,  and  with  what 
exquisite  gradations  does  the  constant  round  of  country 
avocations  unfold  each  practical  power  !  For  the  health 
of  his  whole  soul  in  after  life,  does  not  the  child  need  to 
be  like  father  Adam,  a  tiller  of  the  garden,  and  to  walk 
with  God  amidst  the  Eden-like  beauties  of  the  budding 
and  the  ripening  year  ?  Ay  !  does  he  not  need,  too,  to 
be  somewhat  of  a  vagrant  and  unchartered  freeholder  ? 

A  frank  confession  must  here  be  made,  however,  that 
through  all  warm  months  the  chief  delight  of  James  and 
myself  was  faking.  Without  the  dimmest  premonition, 
certainly,  of  our  future  calling,  as  "  fishers  of  men,"  we 
plunged  into  this  —  as  it  now  appears  most  cruel  —  sport, 
with  a  zeal  and  skill  that  might  have  won  praises  from 
that  autocrat  of  anglers,  Christopher  North.  Week  in, 
week  out,  the  intensity  of  our  "  passion  "  for  this 
amusement  was  strong  enough  to  bear  us,  with  unwearied 
limbs,  through  scorching  suns,  and  soaking  rains,  and  long 
excursions  among  marshes  and  thickets.  Was  it  the 
mere  pleasure  of  exercising  superior  craft,  that  harden- 
ed us  without  a  thrill  of  horror  to  pluck  those  lustrous, 
swiftly-gliding  creatures  from  their  elastic  element,  and 
see  them  flap  to  painful  death  ?  or  was  it  not  rather  the 
love  of  beauty  that  led  us  with  stealthy  steps  along  the 
brook,  where  in  dark  hollows  and  gurgling  rapids  the  red- 
flecked  trout  were  darting  to  and  fro,  or  by  the  sedgy 


10  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

margin  of  the  ponds,  where,  under  lilies  with  broad  green 
pads  and  white  and  orange  blossoms,  the  spotted  pickerel 
with  bony  snout  and  slowly  fanning  fins  lay  lurking,  or 
on  the  river-bank  beneath  the  elder-blooms,  where,  over 
sands  gold-braided  with  flickering  rays,  the  breams  or 
perch  maintained  their  brotherhood  ?  Doubtless,  glory 
in  repute  for  sportsmanship  and  love  of  adventure  were 
elements  in  our  excitement  ;  but  verily  I  believe  our  joy 
rose  mainly  from  symbols  half  hinted,  half  hidden,  in  the 
musical,  graceful  flow  of  waters,  the  inverted  images  of 
trees  and  herbs  and  living  things,  more  brightly  beautiful 
than  their  originals,  the  phantom-like  shapes  of  brooding 
fogs,  the  mirrored  skies  so  softly  blue,  across  whose 
wonderful  depths  clouds  floated  of  every  tint,  with  cease- 
less play  of  light  and  shadow,  the  ever-widening,  ever- 
crossing  circles  formed  by  trickling  rain-drops,  above  all, 
the  gentle,  yet  resistless,  onward  rush  of  the  stream, 
opening  to  thought  dim  avenues  of  that  future  towards 
which  existence  is  evermore  tending.  The  cream  of 
our  delight  was  surely  this  communion  with  nature  in 
her  serenest  moods.  But  whatever  our  motive,  the  fact 
undeniably  was,  that  we  were  a  pair  of  as  inveterate  lit- 
tle fishermen  as  ever  dug  worms,  baited  hook,  or  watch- 
ed a  bobbing  cork  for  a  nibble. 

So  passed  the  sunny  seasons,  and  winter  only  glorified 
for  us  the  dying  year.  Before  frosts  bound  up  the  soil, 
with  hatchet  and  spade  we  dug  up  pitch-pine  knots  to 
brighten  the  twilight  with  their  genial  glow.  Then  fol- 
lowed skating,  with  its  fascinating  flights  over  the  black, 
transparent,  gleaming  surface  of  the  pond,  while  the  yet 
thin  ice  rang  musically,  and  chipped  and  crackled  round 
us,  or  bent  in  gentle  undulations,  as  sparkling  particles 
skimmed  off  like  spray  beneath  our  cutting  strokes.  But 


YOUTH.  11 

ecstasy  was  at  its  height  only  when  a  driving  north- 
easter came  to  bury  up  roads  and  fences  beneath  the 
snow.  Somewhere  we  had  found  Forster's  Treatise  on 
Meteorology,  and  had  patiently  studied  out  the  science  of 
the  clouds,  until  our  prognostications  would  have  done 
no  discredit  to  a  sage  seaman  or  farmer.  With  what 
congratulations  we  spied  the  wavy  film  of  cirrus  whiten- 
ing the  sky  at  noon,  beheld  the  sun  dwindle  to  a  pallid 
point  and  disappear  in  leaden  banks  skirting  the  south- 
western horizon,  and  watched  the  halo  growing  faint  and 
ever  fainter  round  the  moon,  while  smoke  columns  from 
the  neighbouring  chimneys  curled  uprightly  through  the 
still  air,  then  slowly  curved  and  settled  before  faint  puffs 
of  the  eastern  wind.  With  what  eagerness  we  waked 
by  daylight,  listened  to  hear  the  clicking  flakes  against 
the  glass,  and  peered  abroad  through  window-panes  half 
cleared  of  frost  to  see  whether  the  ground  was  whitened 
and  wooded  hills  looked  veiled  and  dim.  All  day  long 
our  rapture  grew  with  the  growing  drifts,  as  we  waded 
back  and  forth,  or  leaped  to  bury  ourselves  full  length  in 
the  powdery  mounds,  rejoicing  most  when  whirling  snow- 
clouds  shut  out  the  nearest  familiar  objects,  and  when 
the  pelting  blast  forced  us  to  close  our  blinded  eyes  and 
turn  our  backs  to  catch  a  breath.  Then  when  night 
came  on  without  exhausting  the  crystal  store-house  of 
the  clouds,  and  rays  from  fire  and  candle  flashed  out  in 
flame-like  splendor  on  the  scud,  and  icicles  hung  tbick 
and  long  from  half  blocked  up  windows,  and  tbe  tempest 
howled  and  died  away  fitfully  above  the  chimmey  or  moan- 
ed through  the  crannies,  how  we  made  the  walls  resound 
with  Campbell's  Ode  to  Winter,  read  aloud  apt  passages 
from  Thomson's  Seasons,  Cowper's  Task,  or  Hogg's 
Glen-Avin,  and  told  stories  round  the  hearth,  while  — 


12  LIFE    OF   JAMES   H.    PERKINS. 

temperance  forgive  —  we  passed  the  cider-mug  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  feasted  on  nuts  and  apples.  Even 
when  the  repeated  "  Good-night  "  summons  drove  us 
reluctantly  to  bed,  we  did  not  lose  our  interest  in  the 
progress  of  the  storm,  which  we  would  have  to  be  the 
most  tremendous  ever  seen  or  heard  of ;  again  and  again 
we  must  open  a  crack  of  the  door  to  feel  with  hand  and 
cheek  the  thickened  atmosphere,  again  and  again,  with 
eyes  screened  from  the  light  held  close  to  the  panes,  scan 
the  white  swarm  of  eddying  flakes,  again  and  again  sit 
up  half  wrapped  in  blankets  to  assure  ourselves  that 
spirits  of  the  air  yet  played  their  antics  round  the  eaves, 
and  that  still  the  wooded  hills  looked  veiled  and  dim. 
And  morning  !  when  through  a  fringe  of  slowly  with- 
drawing clouds  the  slanting  sunbeams  opened  a  doorway 
to  calm  upper  glory,  and  lustre  fell  on  pine-trees  bowed 
with  sweeping  arms  beneath  white  priestly  robes,  and 
roofs,  gables,  fences,  wood-piles,  exalted  by  peerless 
arabesques  into  component  parts  of  one  vast  temple, 
whose  floor  was  the  wide  waste  of  spotless  plains,  whose 
colonnade  of  arches  was  the  shining  hills,  —  with  what 
grateful  awe  did  we  behold  the  miraculous  transmutation 
of  the  common  scene,  and  recognize  the  boundlessness 
of  Divine  art  so  prodigally  poured  abroad  in  evanescent 
beauty  !  with  what  thrills  of  pure  pleasure  did  we  trace 
the  varied  mouldings  of  the  snow-drift,  and  refresh  our 
dazzled  eyes  in  the  cerulean  tint  of  blue  that,  beneath 
each  graceful  curve,  mirrored  the  heavens  ! 

These  simple  joys  of  country  life  I  would  like  to  pic- 
ture with  even  fond  minuteness,  so  sure  I  am,  that  more 
than  all  other  influences  they  combined  to  shape  James's 
tastes  and  habits,  and  that  every  type  of  beautiful  joy 
entered  into  his  spiritual  life  to  reappear  through  after 


YOUTH.  13 

years  in  hope,  patience,  liberal  judgments,  capacious 
thought,  and  ideal  longings  for  purity  and  peace.  Well 
might  he  have  echoed  Wordsworth's  sublime  strain  of 
gratitude  :  — 

"  Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou  soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought, 
That  gavest  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion,  not  in  vain 
By  day  or  star-light  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul, 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man, 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 
With  life  and  nature,  purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline, 
Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognize 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart." 

Justice  must  now  be  done,  however,  to  the  wise 
guardianship  of  a  teacher,  to  whom  James  was  most 
warmly  attached,  and  to  whom  he  felt  that  he  was  deeply 
indebted  for  the  formation  of  his  character  and  mind. 
This  was  Mr.  S.  P.  Miles,  —  afterward  Tutor  of  Math- 
ematics in  Harvard  University,  and  honored  Principal 
of  the  Boston  English  High  School,  who  will  be  always 
remembered  with  affectionate  reverence  by  every  pupil 
who  enjoyed  his  paternal  care.  Son  of  a  clergyman  in 
a  small  village  of  New  Hampshire,  stimulated  to  over- 
exertion  by  a  desire  to  aid  his  younger  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, broken  down,  as  so  many  men  of  highest  promise 
have  been,  by  a  sudden  change  from  out-of-door  labors 
to  sedentary  pursuits,  and  with  the  spiritual  light  of  con- 
sumption already  beaming  in  his  eyes,  Mr.  Miles  treated 
his  scholars  with  a  considerate  sympathy,  a  delicate  ap- 
preciation of  tendencies  and  trials,  an  encouraging  cheer- 

VOL.  i.  2 


14  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

fulness,  a  sweetness,  and,  above  all,  an  equity,  which  ap- 
pealed to  every  magnanimous  impulse,  and  quickened 
conscience  and  self-respect  to  constant  action.  He  was 
in  spirit  and  deed  a  Christian  gentleman.  Reared  up 
under  a  somewhat  gloomy  Orthodoxy,  he  had  worked  his 
way  out  into  the  sunnier  faith  of  Unitarianism,  and  blend- 
ed in  his  religious  sentiments  the  earnest  piety  of  Calvin- 
ism with  the  hopeful  benevolence  of  the  Liberal  school  ; 
while  natural  affability  and  refined  tastes  gave  the  charm 
of  courtesy  to  manners  made  pensive  by  a  consciously 
weak  hold  of  life.  His  mental  bias  was  towards  natu- 
ral science,  and  he  had  supplied  himself  with  books, 
plates,  cabinets,  and  instruments  for  illustrating  lectures 
or  making  experiments,  which  he  was  always  patient  as 
prompt  to  use  for  the  good  of  those  who  had  the  sense 
to  appreciate  his  teaching. 

James  was  as  much  of  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Miles  as  a 
person  so  impartial  would  allow  himself  to  have,  and  for 
a  time  was  his  room-mate.  I  think  I  well  know  the  oc- 
casion that  6rst  called  out  his  special  regard  for  his  pupil. 
Business  summoning  him  away  one  afternoon,  he  trusted 
the  school  to  the  charge  of  a  monitor,  expressing  a  hope 
that  his  confidence  would  not  be  abused.  But  on  his 
return  his  ears  were  greeted,  even  from  a  distance,  by 
an  uproar.  The  sentry  at  the  door,  however,  giving 
notice  of  "  the  master,"  all  was  a  scene  of  apparently 
absorbing  study  as  he  entered.  This  hypocrisy  prob- 
ably touched  him  more  keenly  than  our  quite  natural 
roguishness,  for  it  was  with  a  tone  of  most  unusual  sever- 
ity that  he  said,  —  "  Let  the  boys  who  have  been  guilty 
of  this  disturbance  come  forward."  No  one  stirred,  the 
big  fellows  especially,  who  had  been  ringleaders,  sitting 
shrouded  in  a  most  imperturbable  air  of  injured  inno- 


YOUTH.  15 

cence.  After  waiting  in  silence,  and  looking  from  face 
to  face,  he  continued,  "  Has  no  one  courage  to  be 
true  ?  "  Then,  up  from  the  benches  of  the  smaller 
boys  rose  James,  and,  with  a  friend  of  about  his  own 
age,  walked  steadily  down  the  aisle,  until  confronted  with 
the  ruler  of  our  little  realm.  It  was  with  a  clear,  calm 
tone,  and  a  look  of  sorrow,  not  fear,  that  he  confessed 
his  trifling  share  in  the  tumult; — and  incentive  indeed 
it  was  to  frankness  for  a  lifetime,  when,  placing  his  hand 
on  the  heads  of  the  young  friends,  and  with  a  few  words 
to  the  school  in  commendation  of  their  honor,  the  much- 
loved  teacher  forgave  them.  From  that  hour  Mr.  Miles 
seemed  to  repose  a  perfect  trust  in  James's  sincerity, 
and  admitted  him  to  his  intimate  friendship.  Through 
this  intercourse  he  gained  a  strengthened  interest  in  the 
natural  sciences,  more  solidity  of  judgment,  simplicity  of 
manners,  and  lively  conscientiousness  ;  and  I  doubt  not, 
also,  that,  by  their  conversations,  readings,  and  occasional 
devotions,  James's  religious  sensibility  was  much  quick- 
ened, —  though  Mr.  Miles's  dread  of  formality  or  mor- 
bid excitement,  and  his  respect  for  the  sacredness  of 
spiritual  experiences,  made  him  reserved  even  to  an 
excess  of  delicacy.  Altogether,  this  period  of  Lancas- 
ter life  was  most  prolific  of  good  for  James.  Vital  seeds 
were  deeply  planted  in  him, — seeds  destined  to  outlive 
the  gloomiest  seasons  of  doubt  and  despondency,  and  to 
grow  up  to  sunlight  through  the  rubbish  of  temptation 
and  worldly  influences. 

Now  came  separation  once  more,  while  James  passed 
several  years,  first  at  Phillips  Academy,  Exeter,  where 
presided  the  excellent  Dr.  Abbot,  who  had  married  a 
sister  of  his  father ;  and  afterward  in  the  famous  Round- 


16  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

Hill  School,  at  Northampton,  Massachusetts,  then  under 
the  direction  of  Mr.  Joseph  G.  Cogswell  and  Mr.  George 
Bancroft,  assisted  by  a  most  talented  and  accomplished 
corps  of  teachers.  During  this  interval  I  could  trace 
his  progress  only  by  means  of  a  correspondence,  quite 
diligently  kept  up  for  boys,  and  a  cronyship  regularly 
renewed  in  every  vacation.  One  of  his  instructors  at 
that  period,  Hon.  Timothy  Walker  of  Cincinnati,  de- 
scribes James  as  follows  :  —  "During  the  years  1826, 
1S27,  1828,  I  had  charge  of  the  mathematical  depart- 
ment, and  young  Perkins  was  a  member  of  my  class. 
No  instance  is  remembered  in  which  he  incurred  censure 
from  any  of  the  professors  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was 
always  prepared  in  his  lessons.  He  did  not  then  study 
the  ancient  languages  ;  but  in  the  modern  languages, 
French,  Spanish,  Italian,  and  German,  it  is  believed 
that  he  had  no  superiors  among  the  pupils.  It  is  well 
remembered  that  he  was  never  a  playful  or  mirthful  boy. 
While  others  were  engaged  in  their  sports,  he  sought  his 
recreation  in  solitary  walks,  generally  in  the  beautiful 
surrounding  forests,  collecting  flowers  and  minerals." 
And  a  friend  and  schoolmate,  U.  Tracy  Howe,  Esq., 
adds  the  following  impressions:  —  "As  a  boy,  James 
exhibited  some  of  the  peculiarities  which  have  marked 
him  through  life.  He  had  great  intellectual  activity  and 
capacity,  and  whenever  he  applied  himself  he  excelled  ; 
yet,  as  I  recall  him,  he  did  not  rank  high  or  take  a  prom- 
inent stand  as  a  scholar.  He  had  then,  as  he  had  in 
manhood,  that  love  of  independence,  both  in  action  and 
thought,  which  made  it  distasteful  to  him  to  comply  with 
any  rules  or  formulas  of  thought  or  study  imposed  by 
others.  Thus,  though  his  mind  and  body  were  active, 
they  were  active  in  his  own  peculiar  way.  I  remember 


YOUTH.  17 

we  used  frequently  to  start  off  upon  a  pedestrian  tour,  in 
the  midst  of  a  hard  snow-storm,  or  at  its  close,  with  the 
snow  up  to  our  knees  ;  and  at  such  times,  when  others 
were  about  the  fire  or  amusing  themselves  under  cover, 
it  was  his  favorite  pastime  to  take  a  tramp  of  several 
miles,  over  the  fields  and  through  the  woods.  This 
fondness  for  walking  —  for  severe  walking  —  continued 
with  him  as  long  as  I  knew  any  thing  of  his  habits.  An 
accident  of  childhood,  which  produced  weakness  and 
periodical  lameness  of  one  leg,  prevented  him  from  en- 
tering into  the  more  active  of  boyish  sports  ;  but  he  was 
very  fond  of  gymnastics,  especially  of  such  as  required 
vigor  of  arm.  He  had  at  that  time  great  facility  in  writ- 
ing for  a  boy,  and  some  taste  and  power  in  versification. 
His  desire  for  an  adventurous,  roving  life  was  very 
strong.  The  thought  of  the  wilderness,  and  of  the  free 
activity  of  the  backwoodsman  and  hunter,  always  excited 
his  imagination  ;  and  I  remember  well,  when  reading 
with  him  some  account  of  the  region  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  how  his  face  would  light  up,  and  his  eye 
glow  with  enthusiasm,  as  he  talked  of  going  thither, 
which  he  said  he  intended  to  do  at  some  future  day." 

The  passion  for  exploring  rambles,  thus  truly  referred 
to  as  characteristic  of  James,  was  the  result  of  many 
combined  impulses.  The  restless  energy  of  his  nervous- 
bilious  temperament  sought  vent  in  sustained  muscular 
activity  ;  poetic  enthusiasm  was  gratified  by  the  sense  of 
novelty,  the  hope  of  adventures,  and  contemplation  of 
the  exquisite  beauty  that  hung  around  Mount  Holyoke 
and  Mount  Tom,  or  overspread  the  wooded  hills  and 
grassy  meadows  of  the  Connecticut ;  his  already  strong 
taste  for  natural  science,  yet  further  stimulated  by  Mr. 
Cogswell,  who  was  an  earnest  mineralogist,  and  by  Pro- 
2* 


18  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

fessor  Hentz,  who  was  a  master  of  botany  and  entomol- 
ogy, found  ceaseless  play  ;  his  almost  Indian-like  love 
of  independence  enjoyed  the  zest  of  consciously  break- 
ing the  appointed  school-bounds,  and  disregarding  high- 
ways or  inclosures  ;  and  finally,  solitude  freed  him  from 
the  frivolities  of  uncongenial  companions,  and  gave  oc- 
casion for  thought  and  the  exercise  of  fancy  in  mental 
composition.  An  extract  from  a  confidential  letter,  writ- 
ten about  the  time  of  his  leaving  Northampton,  presents 
his  portrait,  by  his  own  hand.  It  is  by  no  means  flat- 
tered, but  very  life-like,  and  may  suitably  close  this 
sketch  of  his  school-days  ;  especially  as  it  illustrates  — 
what  James  felt  intensely  throughout  his  manhood  — 
the  evils  of  education  in  large  schools  unhallowed  by 
religious  and  humane  influences,  and  where  the  young 
are  trusted,  without  wise  guardianship,  to  their  own  half- 
savage  instincts. 

1827.  "  I  have  never  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  all 
affection  is  affectation.  Far  from  it.  I  may  seem  dull  or 
cold  where  others  would  not, —  not  because  I  do  not  feel, 
but  because  it  is  not  natural  for  me  to  express  my  feelings. 
I  have  always  been  to  appearance  a  phlegmatic  sort  of  ani- 
mal, but  it  is  only  in  appearance.  I  have  felt  what  no  one 
at  the  time  knew  me  to  feel. 

"  You  need  not  fear  that  I  am  about  to  reveal  a  love 
story  ;  I  have  not  reached  that  degree  of  affection  yet.  I 
have  only  now  to  say,  that  I  have  loved  my  master.  I  really 

loved  Mr.  M ,  at  Lancaster ;  I  have  really  loved  Mr. 

C ,  here.  He  liked  me  too;  and  what  was  the  result? 

I  was  hated  by  the  boys.  This  was  when  was  under 

my  charge.  If  I  spoke  to  him  of  neatness,  be  complained 
to  his  companions ;  and  this,  with  the  favor  I  had  with  Mr. 

C ,  finished  me.  I  was  voted  a  bully,  was  driven  out  of 

all  society,  and  became  a  sort  of  solitary.  After  this  term, 


YOUTH.  19 

when  the  boys  found 's  story  a  lie,  they  became  more 

friendly.  Then  I  apparently  left  the  master  and  took  to  my 
playmates,  for  '  you  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon,'  you 
know.  I  made  friends  with  those  who  had  persecuted  me, 
and  became  in  turn  head  of  the  persecutors.  I  gained  my 
revenge,  but  I  was  feared.  Before,  when  I  was  hated,  I 
was  weak  ;  now  I  was  strong,  and  the  strong  were  on  my 
side.  Still  I  was  unhappy.  Then  I  let  all  persecution  drop, 
treated  every  body  well,  and  appeared  to  love  all.  But  by 
this  time  I  had  become  disgusted.  I  could  gain  peace  only 
by  deceit,  and  deceit  I  loathed.  So  now  I  grew  desirous  of 
living  alone.  I  could  trust  none,  did  trust  none,  and  ceased 
to  show  that  I  had  any  affection  at  all.  Thus  unsociability 
is  my  nature,  my  habit,  my  fancy,  and  I  fear  I  shall  never 
be  cured." 

The  most  interesting  recollection  of  James,  during 
this  period,  which  remains  with  me  is,  that  he  invariably 
brought  home  a  budget  of  copy-books,  crammed  with 
tales  and  verses,  —  some  mere  plagiarizing  imitations,  of 
course,  but  the  most  of  them  freshly  alive  with  his  own 
experience  and  originality.  These  it  was  always  our  first 
pleasure  to  read  over  together  and  to  criticize.  And  I 
know  no  better  way  of  giving  some  impression  of  our 
delight  in  those  hours  of  callow  authorship,  than  to  re- 
print here  a  few  pieces,  composed  about  that  time, 
though  revised  at  a  later  day.  They  are  all  records  of 
his  youth. 


MY    AUNT    ESTHER. 

MY  first  and  best,  and  oldest  of  aunts !  and  yet  no  more 
my  relation  than  the  town-pump.  Aunt  Esther  !  she  was 
the  nursing  mother  of  the  whole  dynasty  of  • s,  father 


20  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

and  grandfather,  son  and  grandson;  —  they  had  all  been 
fondled  and  spanked,  washed,  combed,  and  clothed  by  the 
venerable  maiden.  From  her  I  learned  to  love  "  lasses 
candy  " ;  from  her  I  learned  to  hate  Tom  Jefferson. 
Many  an  evening  as  I  sat  by  her  rush-bottomed  and  rickety 
chair,  threading  her  needle,  or  holding,  while  she  wound, 
skeins  of  silk  or  yarn,  that  I  thought  must  be  as  long  as  the 
equator,  —  many  an  evening  has  she  discoursed  of  the  arch- 
rebel  Napoleon,  whom  "  she  would  have  torn  to  flinders," 
she  said,  "  if  she  could  only  have  got  her  hands  on  him  "  ; 
though  the  next  day  she  would  set  free  the  very  mouse 
that  had  stolen  her  last  pet  morsel  of  cheese  ;  for  she  was  a 
very  Uncle  Toby,  or  rather  Aunt  Toby,  in  such  matters. 

She  told  me  of  Napoleon,  and  her  little  work-table  was 
the  battle-field.  Here  was  the  ball  of  yarn,  and  there  was 
the  half-finished  stocking,  and  yonder  was  the  big  Bible, 
supported  by  the  spectacle-case.  Old  Boney  himself  moved 
among  them  in  the  form  of  a  knitting-needle;  and  to  this 
day  I  cannot  think  of  the  Little  Corporal,  but  as  a  tall  bit 
of  cold  steel,  with  a  head  made  of  beeswax. 

From  her,  too,  came  my  portrait  of  Washington,  whom 
she  had  seen  during  his  visit  to  the  North.  Year  after  year 
did  those  well-beloved  lips  pronounce  his  eulogy,  and  often 
was  the  hourly  prayer  put  up  by  me  for  a  long  life  to  Aunt 
Esther  and  General  Washington;  little  did  I  dream  that  one 
who  to  me  had  just  begun  to  live,  had  been  dead  these  ten 
years  and  more  ! 

And  then  came  the  war  and  the  Hartford  Convention  ; 
and  such  a  time  as  we  had  of  it,  up  in  our  little  back-room  ! 
I  don't  know  what  it  was  that  preserved  the  nation  ;  for 

there  was  Aunt  Esther  and  I,  and  the  whole  race  of  s, 

in  such  a  passion  that  we  almost  walked  to  England  dry- 
shod. 

Aunt  Esther  had  one  fault,  —  she  was  always  too  cleanly 
in  her  notions.  It  was  probably  because  of  her  Federal  and 


YOUTH.  21 

aristocratic  associations,  but  certain  it  is  that  she  could  not 
even  see  a  dirty  boy  without  wanting  to  wash  her  hands.  And 
this  her  most  prominent  organ  was  exercised  most  fully 
upon  generation  after  generation,  as  each  marched  through 
her  dominions.  "As  bad  as  to  be  washed  by  Aunt  Esther," 
was  a  proverb  in  the  dynasty.  For  many  a  long  year  no 
lines  in  the  language  were  to  me  so  pathetic  and  soul -har- 
rowing* as  those  from  the  Columbiad  :  — 

"  Still  on  thy  rocks  the  broad  Atlantic  roars, 
And  washes  still  unceasingly  thy  shores." 

To  be  "washed  unceasingly  "  was  my  beau-ideal  of  misery. 

Aunt  Esther,  familiar  as  she  was,  was  still  a  mysterious 
being  to  me.  I  had  never  met  any  other  of  her  name  ;  and, 
having  early  in  life  heard  the  Book  of  Esther  read,  always 
thought  of  my  old  nurse  in  connection  with  Ahasuerus  and 
Mordecai,  and  the  tall  gallows.  Nor  was  the  mystery  di- 
minished on  being  told,  when  I  asked  how  long  it  was  since 
Mordecai,  that  it  was  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years. 
How  old  she  was  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  ! 

Brought  up  to  bring  up  others,  the  venerable  matron 
loved  nothing  so  dearly  as  Scotch  snuff  and  noisy  children. 
When  the  storm  waxed  loudest  in  the  nursery,  she  was  most 
in  her  element,  and  walked  undisturbed  amid 

"  The  wreck  of  horses  and  the  crash  of  toys." 

Her  chief  text  and  comfort  was  that  in  which  we  are  told 
that  our  Saviour  blessed  the  children  brought  to  him,  and 
said  that  of  such  was  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  for  to  her 
it  conveyed  the  idea  that  the  place  of  rest  would  be  brim- 
full  of  babies. 

And  I  grew  up,  and  another  generation  came  forward  to 
claim  my  rocking-horses,  and  my  long-legged  chairs.  I 
went  to  school  ;  and  when  I  came  home,  I  found  Aunt 
Esther  just  as  of  old,  only  (as  the  saying  is)  a  good  deal 
more  so.  But  though  to  me  time  was  a  matter  of  some 


22  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

import,  she  defied  it.  Nay,  I  received  a  letter  from  my 
cousin,  who  had  just  been  married,  telling  me  that  Aunt 

Esther  had  danced  at  her  wedding.    was  the  old  lady's 

last  favorite;  gentle  and  kindly,  she  loved  her  foster-mother 
more  than  many  do  their  own  parents,  and  she  meant  to 
take  the  ancient  to  her  new  home,  she  told  me.  But  when 
I  arrived  at  Boston  again,  I  found  that  this  had  not  been 
done  ;  Aunt  Esther  could  not  leave  the  old  nursery,  with 
its  yellow  floor  and  barred  windows  ;  and  as  little  could  she 

bear  to  lose  her  pet.     From  the  day  of 's  wedding,  she 

began  to  go  out ;  her  work  on  earth  was  done ;  and  from 
the  arms  of  the  last  she  had  brought  up  in  the  fear  of  the 
Lord,  she  passed  away  to  meet  her  new  colony  of  infants 
beyond  the  skies. 

In  one  corner  of  the  church-yard  there  had  been  a  great 
oak,  of  which  all  had  departed  but  a  shell  of  bark  a  few 
feet  high.  From  this  shell,  within  a  year  or  two,  a  young, 
tall  sprout  had  sprung  up.  Under  that  emblem  of  the  res- 
urrection they  laid  the  body  of  Aunt  Esther.  Above  her 
they  placed  a  three-sided  obelisk  ;  upon  the  west  side  was 
carved  the  form  of  an  aged  woman,  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave ;  upon  the  east,  that  of  a  bright  spirit,  springing  from 
that  same  grave ;  while  upon  the  front  was  her  name  and 
age,  —  "Esther  Pray,  aged  91  years,"  with  a  part  of  her 
favorite  text,  perverted  and  yet  true,  — "  Of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven." 


THE    NASHUA. 

FAIREST  of  rivers,  rolling  Nashua  ! 

Whose  waters  through  deep  forests  glide  along, 

And  then  o'er  rocks  and  pebbles  dash  and  splash  away  ! 

To  thee,  sweet  stream,  would  I  direct  my  song ; 

From  'mid  these  dusty  streets,  this  bustling  throng, 


YOUTH.  23 

The  hum  of  business,  I  would  strive  to  sing 
(So  be  't  the  Muses  will  inspire  my  tongue) 
Of  the  sweet  days  of  life's  all-joyous  spring, 
When  fishing  was  "  the  go,"  and  Saturday  "  the  thing." 

Still,  as  of  erst,  thou  rollest  on  thy  tide 
Unto  the  ocean,  its  far  dwelling-place, 
And  still  the  blackbird  screameth  by  thy  side, 
And  still  the  bubble  dances  on  thy  face, 
But  on  thy  banks  there  is  a  different  race. 
We  were  there  once,  ere  Time  upon  our  brow 
Had  set  his  signet,  and  a  little  space 
We  angled  where  thy  tall  bullrushes  grow.  — 
Our  lines  were  taking  then,  I  fear  mine  wont  be  now  ! 

Ah  Youth  !  thou  art  indeed  the  golden  age 
Of  our  existence,  and  when  thou  dost  pass 
The  silver  comes,  when  money  is  the  rage  ; 
And  by  and  by  awhile,  the  age  of  brass, 
When  men  will  lie  and  fabricate,  alas  ! 
As  if  they  did  not  know  it  were  a  sin  ; 
Then  iron  old  age  comes.     There  ends  the  farce ; 
And  to  the  most,  the  tragic  doth  begin, 
For  all  without  seems  dark,  when  there  's  no  light  within. 

But  Youth  !  thy  days  have  passed,  for  ever  passed. 
No  more  we  rig  the  line,  array  the  poles, 
And  hurry  to  the  river-side  so  fast;  — 
No  more  we  gather  round  the  favorite  hole, 
Or  angle  where  the  rapid  waters  roll, 
For  the  bright  chiven  or  the  spotted  trout ;  — 
A  pickerel  now  is  not  ambition's  goal ;  — 
We  should  not  fish  and  fume  and  sweat  about, 
Save  for  a  smiling  wife,  which,  caught,  may  prove  a  pout ! 


24  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 


THE    YOUNG    SOLDIER. 

"  Now  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect, 
Set  firm  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostrils  wide, 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  tend  up  every  spirit 
To  his  full  height."  —  King  Henry  Fifth. 

O,  WERE  ye  ne'er  a  schoolboy  ? 

And  did  you  never  train, 

And  feel  that  swelling  of  the  heart 

You  never  can  again  ? 

Didst  never  meet,  far  down  the  street, 

With  plumes  and  banners  gay, 

While  the  kettle,  for  the  kettle-drum, 

Played  your  march,  march  away  ? 

It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday, 
Nor  scarce  so  long  ago, 
Since  we  shouldered  our  muskets 
To  charge  the  fearful  foe. 
Our  muskets  were  of  cedar-wood, 
With  ramrod  bright  and  new  ; 
With  bayonet  for  ever  set, 
And  painted  barrel  too. 

We  charged  upon  a  flock  of  geese, 
And  put  them  all  to  flight, 
Except  one  sturdy  gander, 
That  thought  to  show  us  fight. 
But,  ah  !  we  knew  a  thing  or  two  : 
Our  captain  wheeled  the  van, — 
We  routed  him,  we  scouted  him, 
Nor  lost  a  single  man. 

Our  captain  was  as  brave  a  lad 
As  e'er  commission  bore  ; 


YOUTH.  25 

All  brightly  shone  his  tin  sword, 

And  a  paper  cap  he  wore  ; 

He  led  us  up  the  hill-side, 

Against  the  western  wind, 

While  the  cockerel  plume  that  decked  his  head 

Streamed  bravely  out  behind. 

We  shouldered  arms,  we  carried  arms, 

We  charged  the  bayonet ; 

And  woe  unto  the  mullen-stalk 

That  in  our  course  we  met. 

At  two  o'clock  the  roll  was  called, 

And  till  the  close  of  day, 

With  our  brave  and  plumed  captain, 

We  fought  the  mimic  fray, — 

When  the  supper-bell,  we  knew  so  well, 

Came  stealing  up  from  out  the  dell, 

For  our  march,  march  away. 


MY   OLD    FELT    HAT. 

"Gone,  and  for  ever  !  —  Let  me  muse  awhile."  —  ANON. 

THIS  world  's  a  very  wicked  world, 

Indeed,  I  wish  it  would  amend  ; 

This  world  's  a  very  heartless  world, 

I  may  not,  cannot  find  a  friend. 

I  've  searched  it  through  from  side  to  side, 

All  kinds,  complexions,  I  have  tried, 

The  young,  the  old,  the  lean,  the  fat, 

Of  every  climate,  every  hue  ; 

But  cannot  find  one  half  so  true, 

So  ever  firm  and  kind,  as  you, 

My  old  felt  hat. 
VOL.  i.  3 


26  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

I  bought  it  on  a  summer's  day, — 
The  summer  sun  was  shining  bright, 
The  summer  birds  were  singing  gay 
In  every  grove,  on  every  spray  ; 
And  as  I  went  my  homeward  way, 
Ah  me  !   I  was  a  happy  wight. 
And  when  I  stopped,  —  a  foolish  boy,  — 
Upon  a  mossy  stone  I  sat, 
And  wept  to  think  how  blest  I  was  ; 
And  as  I  wept,  I  kissed  the  cause 
Of  all  my  tears,  and  hope,  and  joy, 
My  new  felt  hat. 

Ah  !  summer  days  are  sweet  and  long, 
But  summer  days  are  quickly  told  ; 
And  new  felt  hats  are  passing  strong, 
But  cannot  bear  the  rain  and  cold. 
They  said  that  mine  was  getting  old  ; 
But  still  I  wore,  I  brushed  it  still, 
And  still  it  was  my  Sunday's  best  ; 
And  when  within  the  pew  I  sat, 
In  ruffled  shirt  and  speckled  vest, 
How  carefully  I  watched  thee,  lest 
Some  wicked  one  should  work  thee  ill, 
My  new  felt  hat ! 

And  winter  past,  and  jocund  spring, 
With  skies  of  blue  and  leaves  of  green, 
And  countless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
Came  back,  and  round  us  every  thing 
Burst  forth  in  renovated  sheen. 
Did  I  say  all  ?     Yes,  all,  save  one  ; 
Nor  watering  dew  nor  warming  sun 


YOUTH.  27 

Brought  spring  or  summer  more  to  that  : 
All  past  was  now  its  early  pride, 
All  broken  in  its  pasteboard  side, 
And  so  it  lost  its  dye,  and  died, 
My  poor  felt  hat. 

Ah  !  my  old  hat,  —  methinks  in  thee 
A  mournful  emblem  I  may  see. 
The  fairest  flowers  are  first  to  die, 
The  brightest  fruits  the  soonest  fall ; 
The  worm  will  live,  —  the  butterfly, 
One  little  hour  may  be  his  all  ; 
The  patriot  stern,  that  will  not  bow 
Nor  to  the  monarch  bend  the  knee, 
But  bears  his  country's  wrongs,  as  thou 
Didst  bear  the  blows  were  meant  for  me,  — 
The  fairest  flowers  of  womankind, 
Of  warmest  heart,  and  brightest  mind, 
Of  sweetest  eye,  and  liveliest  chat, — 
May  live  one  short,  one  summer  day  ; 
Then,  for  this  world  too  pure  and  true, 
Will  lose  their  beauty  and  decay, 
Scarce  prized  till  they  are  lost  ;  —  like  you, 
My  old  felt  hat. 

So  much  for  first  flights  in  authorship.  And  next 
came  comparisons  of  what  had  been  read  since  we  part- 
ed, and  new  explorations  in  the  fields  of  literature.  The 
earlier  English  poets  and  ancient  bards  in  translations,  we 
were  sufficiently  acquainted  with  to  revere  from  afar  ; 
but  they  occupied  a  secondary  place  in  our  affections. 
Thomson,  Goldsmith,  Cowper,  came  nearer  home. 
Scott  was  read,  reread,  recited.  Campbell  was  a  famil- 
iar household  minstrel.  Southey  was  dearly  prized  for 


28  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

his  pathos,  manly  simplicity,  high-toned  goodness,  end- 
lessly various  versification,  and,  above  all,  for  his  rich 
imagination  as  exhibited  in  the  Curse  of  Kehama  and 
Thalaba,  whose  fluent  melodies  charmed  us  unweariedly. 
And,  by  somewhat  incongruous  juxtaposition,  Byron 
was  our  idol.  Strange  it  seems  now  to  recall  the  fe- 
verish excitement  with  which  we  gave  ourselves  up  to 
Childe  Harold,  the  Bride  of  Abydos,  the  Siege  of  Co- 
rinth, &c.,  —  our  favorite  being  Manfred.  Coleridge, 
too,  wove  round  us  his  mysterious  spell  in  the  Ancient 
Mariner,  Christabel,  and  Genevieve,  though  of  course 
we  were  yet  unripe  for  his  more  solemn  strains.  But 
our  grand  discovery  was  Wordsworth;  —  discovery,  I 
say,  for  we  had  never  heard  more  than  his  name,  cer- 
tainly, when,  taking  up  a  volume  that  lay  on  the  table, 
we  chanced  on  Peter  Bell,  and  read  it  aloud  with  in- 
tensest  interest.  The  Idiot  Boy,  The  Cumberland 
Beggar,  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  and  all  his  simpler 
tales  and  poems,  followed  in  swift  succession,  and  cor- 
dially did  we  thank  their  author  for  the  springs  of  pure 
and  serene  joy  which  his  touches  of  natural  feeling 
opened  in  our  hearts.  But  we  were  not  absorbed  in 
poetry.  Now  were  the  enrapturing  days  of  the  Waver- 
ley  Novels,  which,  sitting  side  by  side,  we  scampered 
through,  with  eyes  on  a  race  to  reach  the  bottom  of  the 
page.  We  were  never  tired,  either  in  poring  over  Ho- 
garth's works,  and  tracing  out  in  minutest  details  the 
tragi-comic  aspect  of  life's  tapestry  turned  wrong  side 
out.  Don  Quixote,  too,  in  a  beautifully  illustrated  copy, 
was  a  serviceable  counterpoise  to  our  over-wrought 
enthusiasm.  As  I  remember,  moreover,  James  was 
fond  of  studying  some  volumes  of  Cuvier's  Animal 
Kingdom,  which  he  found  in  his  father's  library,  being 


YOUTH.  29 

rather  attracted  than  repelled  by  their  classifications  and 
technicalities  ;  and  his  vigorous  mind  drew  in  the  practi- 
cal information  needed  for  nutriment,  from  works  of 
travels,  and  history.  Still,  undeniably,  the  poets  were 
our  cherished  guides,  and  it  was  in  their  company  that 
we  learned  wonder,  trust,  and  hope. 

Our  vacations  were  by  no  means,  however,  mainly 
passed  within  doors,  or  in  beholding  life  through  the 
magic  glass  of  imagination.  We  still  kept  up  our  habits 
of  pedestrian  excursions,  and  were  passionately  as  ever 
fond  of  angling.  Regularly  we  spent  several  weeks  at 
Nahant,  where  his  mother,  attracted  by  health  and  taste, 
resided  during  the  summer.  Her  cottage  stood  upon  the 
ridge  of  the  promontory,  overlooking  the  bay  encircled 
by  the  beaches  of  Beverly  and  Gloucester,  from  the 
long-stretching  village  of  Lynn  to  the  looming  headlands 
of  Cape  Ann,  with  the  brown  steeps  of  Egg  Rock,  gir- 
dled by  foam,  on  the  east.  There  our  daily  delight  was 
to  see  from  the  piazza  the  sun  break  in  glory  from  the 
glittering  water,  and  then  to  watch  the  flock  of  fishing- 
boats,  with  pointed  sails,  skimming  across  the  blue  sur- 
face like  sea-birds  on  the  wing.  When  the  dew  was  off 
the  herbage,  and  breakfast  done,  with  poles,  lines,  and  bait 
in  order,  we  started  for  the  rocks,  soothing  conscience  — 
that  would  now  and  then  upbraid  us  for  our  wholesale 
murders  —  by  the  specious  plea  of  earning  a  dinner. 
But  again  let  me  do  our  hearts  no  more  than  justice,  by 
asseverating,  that  "sport"  formed  a  trifling  ingredient 
only  in  the  fascination,  which  morning  after  morning  en- 
ticed us  to  broil  in  sunshine  upon  the  projecting  ledges 
till  face  and  hands  were  blistered,  and  to  crawl  through 
clefts  slippery  with  seaweed  yet  dripping  with  the  wave's 
last  pulsation.  Our  joy  was  in  the  silvery  glister  of  the 


30  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

horizon,  the  undulating,  on-rolling  ocean,  the  slow-gather- 
ing, graceful  swells,  the  crested  billows  with  their  locks 
of  spray,  and  the  melodious  roar  with  which  the  exultant 
sea  embraced  the  shore  in  ever  fresh  espousals.  Spite  of 
romance,  we  earned  at  once  a  dinner  and  an  appetite  ;  yet 
often  our  poles  dropped  from  listless  hands,  and  baitless 
hooks  were  entangled  in  the  water-plants,  while  dreamily 
we  gazed  into  the  green,  sun-lighted  caverns  of  the  deep, 
or  fancy  took  flight  through  vistas  where  the  main  and 
sky  met  and  mingled. 

But  boyhood's  yachting  trip  must  now  be  ended, 
and  the  merchantman  launched  for  the  voyage  of  life. 
At  the  age  of  eighteen,  James  entered  the  counting- 
room  of  his  uncle,  Colonel  Thomas  H.  Perkins,  whose 
house  was  then,  and  for  so  long  a  period,  a  leader  in  the 
Canton  trade.  Here,  for  two  years  and  more,  he 
punctually  discharged  the  drudging  duties  of  clerk  in  a 
large  establishment,  and  was  trained  by  strict  routine  to 
climb  step  by  step  to  business  efficiency  and  skill ;  and 
hence^too,  in  due  time,  might  he  have  risen  to  become, 
according  to  the  purpose  of  his  munificent  relative,  a 
partner  in  one  of  the  most  substantial  and  gainful  firms 
of  his  native  city.  But  he  felt  that  an  exile  from  books 
to  ledgers  was  turning  him  into  a  mere  copying-machine  ; 
the  reserve  of  his  superiors  shut  him  out  from  such 
views  of  commercial  enterprise  as  might  have  awakened 
his  intellect  and  energy  ;  association  with  his  fellow- 
clerks,  though  friendly,  and  enlivened  with  humorous 
chat,  did  not  feed  his  longing  for  earnest  intercourse, 
while  their  experiences  only  deepened  his  sense  of  the 
inequalities  and  hardships  of  mercantile  life  ;  and  above 
all,  as  he  learned  to  know  his  own  tastes  and  aspirations, 


YOUTH.  31 

did  he  become  satisfied  that  he  could  neither  kindle  nor 
keep  burning  that  love  of  money-making  which  is  the 
prerequisite  of  worldly  success.  Thus  gradually  he  was 
forced  to  the  conviction  that  he  must  disappoint  his 
friends  by  turning  from  a  seemingly  sure  path,  and  fash- 
ioning for  himself  an  untried  career. 

As  James  beheld  perplexities  and  tantalizing  uncer- 
tainties spreading  round  him,  despondency  settled  down 
upon  his  spirits  like  a  foggy  night.  Selfish  anxiety, 
however,  had  but  a  superficial  influence  in  causing  this 
gloom  ;  for  he  was  too  conscious  of  power  to  feel  much 
fear  as  to  finding  a  sphere  of  activity.  His  trials  rose 
from  a  deeper  source.  He  was  now  in  that  passage- 
way from  childhood's  peaceful  valley  to  the  world  of 
action,  when  the  soul  seems  to  stand,  like  an  unarmed 
prize,  between  the  darts  of  tempters  and  the  swords  of 
guardian-angels.  Those  transition  years  from  youth  to 
manhood  ! — years  of  judgment,  when  the  golden  sands 
that  glided  so  swiftly  through  life's  hour-glass  are  sifted 
and  tested,  to  be  thrown  away  as  valueless,  or  molten 
and  coined  ;  years  of  spiritual  candidateship,  when 
cowards,  detected  through  every  sham,  are  let  off  to 
vain  pursuits,  while  the  brave  are  adopted  by  heaven's 
chivalry,  and  sent  abroad  to  win  their  title  by  deeds  of 
generous  good-will  ;  years  of  pilgrimage,  through  which 
all  earnest  persons  pass,  unless  rarely  favored  by  tem- 
perament, social  position,  and  congenial  work  ;  years 
of  baptism,  years  of  the  second  birth  ; — who  ever  did, 
or  ever  could,  adequately  portray  their  pathetic  in- 
terest ? 

My  cousin  made  me  a  counsellor  in  his  conflicts,  and 
thus  I  became  privy  to  the  causes  brought  up  for  judg- 
ment in  his  court  of  conscience.  His  first  struggles  rose 


32  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

from  an  insight  of  the  practices  and  maxims  which  gov- 
ern the  mercantile  profession.  That  men — seemingly 
sound-hearted  in  the  circles  of  family  and  friendship,  and 
nowise  devoid  of  moral  or  religious  principle,  confided 
in  by  fellow-citizens  for  wisdom,  integrity,  and  public 
spirit,  the  "  Ancient  and  Honorable  "  of  the  land  — 
should,  as  a  matter  of  course,  cheat  in  trade,  use  supe- 
rior information  to  outwit  the  unwary,  avail  themselves 
of  the  mischances  of  the  poor,  weave  webs  of  specula- 
tion to  control  markets  for  their  own  gain  by  others' 
losses,  and  all  for  the  sake  of  a  few  dollars,  filled  him 
at  first  with  dismay,  and  then  with  disgust.  Thus  the 
question  came  up,  whether  he  would  add  one  more  to 
the  already  crowded  class  of  "  go-betweens,"  whose 
support  must,  by  some  means,  be  drawn  alike  from  pro- 
ducers and  consumers  ;  and  he  resolved  that,  however 
honorable  might  be  the  position  of  exchanger  in  justly 
ordered  societies,  he  would  escape  at  the  earliest  chance 
from  what  he  saw  was  the  gambler's  den  of  competitive 
commerce.  But  this  question  brought  up  others.  What 
was  the  meaning  of  this  tyranny  of  wealth,  that  led  men 
to  barter  their  very  manhood  for  gain  ?  And,  as  for  the 
first  time  he  opened  his  eyes  on  conventional  customs, 
the  prevalence  of  ambition  and  manoeuvring,  the  cringing 
concessions  of  the  needy,  the  ostentatious  pride  of  the 
opulent,  and  the  fawning  flattery  that  vitiates  to  the  core 
the  courtesies  of  fashionable  life,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
a  sad  contempt  took  possession  of  his  heart,  and  made 
him  for  a  time  a  cynic.  He  grew  plain  to  bluntness  in 
his  speech,  careless  to  extreme  in  dress,  utterly  disre- 
gardful  of  etiquette,  reserved,  almost  morose,  in  manner, 
and  solitary  in  his  ways. 

Yet  deeper  troubles  drove  him  to  solitude.     His  very 


YOUTH.  33 

doubts  of  men  and  dissatisfaction  with  society  compelled 
him  to  look  inward  on  his  own  heart,  and  to  grapple 
there  with  the  stern  problems  of  destiny.  In  his  con- 
scious soul-weariness,  his  want  of  harmony  and  strength, 
his  sullen  despair,  whither  should  he  look  for  light  and 
peace  ?  What  was  this  resistless  Fate  that  seemed  to 
drive  men,  fettered  in  coffles,  to  work  in  dark  mines  of 
evil  ?  Whence  came  prevalent  inhumanity  and  injus- 
tice ?  Was  this  Christian  religion  so  pompously  pro- 
fessed, yet  practically  so  violated,  a  superstitious  farce 
or  a  solemn  reality  ?  Was  there  a  Sovereign  Good, 
intelligent  of  man  and  sympathizing  with  his  struggles  ? 
Was  the  career  of  humanity  a  blind  circuit  in  a  tread- 
mill, or  an  upward  progress  ?  Was  there  an  end  worth 
living  for  ?  In  this  mood  he  read  all  the  philosophers, 
Christian  or  Infidel,  whose  works  he  could  obtain,  and 
found  solace  in  the  poems  of  Shelley.  In  the  vague 
yearnings  of  that  beautiful  spirit  for  love  ineffable  and 
full  of  bliss,  his  communings  with  Nature  as  a  living 
friend,  his  prophetic  hope,  uncompromising  justice,  femi- 
nine tenderness,  unawed  fidelity  to  truth,  and  infantile 
freshness,  was  just  the  cordial  that  his  wounded  feelings 
needed  ;  while  in  the  very  indefiniteness  of  Shelley's 
creed,  he  found  the  reflex  of  his  own  skepticism.  He 
was  much  gratified,  also,  in  planting  his  feet  firmly  on 
facts,  as  they  then  appeared  to  him  to  be,  in  the  novel 
doctrines  of  Phrenology,  and  read  Spurzheim  and  Combe 
with  profoundest  interest.  But  such  satisfaction  was 
incomplete  at  best.  There  were  central,  spiritual  wants, 
which  Shelley  did  not  recognize,  which  natural  science 
could  not  feed,  —  diseases  of  the  Will,  such  as  faith 
alone  could  cure.  Then  it  was  that  James  turned,  as 
so  many  an  inquiring  spirit  has  done,  to  Coleridge,  and 


34  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKIX  S. 

not  in  vain.  In  the  "  Friend,"  and  yet  more  in  the 
"  Aids  to  Reflection,"  he  found  glimpses  of  a  new  world, 
offering  welcome  from  afar  to  the  storm-driven  and  be- 
calmed voyager  ;  but  as  yet  glimpses  only,  for  time  and 
change  of  scene  were  needed  to  bring  him  to  a  haven. 

To  these  real  griefs  were  added  others  wholly  fanci- 
ful in  origin,  and  which,  in  after  life,  he  could  refer  to 
with  no  little  amusement.  He  believed  himself  to  be  in 
love  with  a  lady,  to  whom  I  believe  he  never  even 
spoke,  but  whose  beauty,  as  he  beheld  her  in  his  walks, 
or  at  church,  seemed  quite  to  fulfil  his  ideal  of  loveliness  ; 
and  among  his  manuscripts  poems  still  remain,  express- 
ing his  devotion  to  this  imaginary  mistress.  But  these 
sorrows  of  the  fancy  doubtless  deepened  his  despon- 
dency, which,  spite  of  the  kindness  of  parents,  sisters, 
brothers,  friends,  became  at  length  almost  intolerable. 
For  relief  he  was  accustomed  to  take  long  tramps 
through  rain  and  snow  as  in  bright  weather,  and  by 
night  as  in  the  day.  Usually  he  walked  alone,  though 
not  averse  to  congenial  companionship.  Well  do  I 
remember  his  coming  to  me  in  desperate  mood  one 
autumn  afternoon,  with  the  urgent  request  that  I  would 
go  with  him  to  Nahant.  A  northeast  storm  was 
brooding,  and  he  longed  to  behold  the  surf.  As  we 
crossed  the  beach  about  dusk,  we  saw,  to  our  astonish- 
ment, that  every  breaker  was  luminous  with  phospho- 
rescence. And  going  at  once  to  the  rocks  at  East  ClifT, 
we  witnessed  a  rare  scene  of  solemn  beauty.  Clouds 
of  leaden  gray  closed  darkly  down  on  the  horizon,  and 
scud  was  driving  swiftly  overhead  ;  but,  far  as  eye  could 
reach,  the  surface  of  ocean  was  braided  with  crink- 
ling lines  and  circles  of  soft  lustre,  and  the  billows,  as 
they  rolled  over  half-sunk  ledges,  and,  rushing  onward, 


YOUTH.  35 

flung  themselves  high  against  projecting  points,  opened 
in  golden  wreaths,  and  burst  in  showers  of  spangles. 
No  depression  of  spirits  could  resist  such  a  magnificent 
symbol  of  the  brightness  hid  in  seemingly  the  gloomiest 
fate  ;  and  when,  towards  midnight,  we  sought  our  beds, 
James  was  once  again  light-hearted  as  a  boy. 

As  a  means  of  wholly  breaking  off  his  morbid  trains 
of  feeling,  and  rousing  him  to  healthier  action  of  his 
powers,  his  father  made  arrangements,  in  the  winter  of 
1830  —  31  to  despatch  James  on  a  business  mission,  first 
to  England,  and  thence  to  the  West  Indies.  And  ex- 
tracts from  his  letters  during  this  period  will  best  reveal 
his  progress,  and  his  objects  of  interest. 

PARTING  WORDS. — "  New  York,  January  15,  1831.  I 
am  thus  far  on  my  way  to  England,  and  thence  go  to  the 
West  Indies Pardon  me  if  I  have  the  blues.  Melan- 
choly has  —  much  as  you  may  believe  the  contrary  —  ever 
been  one  of  my  passions,  but  it  is  melancholy  of  a  peculiar 
kind  ;  it  is  not  doubt  concerning  the  future,  nor  sorrow  for  the 
past,  much  as  I  have  reason  both  to  doubt  and  to  sorrow  ;  it  is 
constitutional,  and  I  have  always  been,  am,  and  probably 
shall  ever  be,  really  more  disposed  to  cry  than  to  laugh.  I 
have  lived  in  an  ideal  world  of  my  own  creating,  knowing  at 
the  same  time  that  it  was  ideal  ;  the  world,  as  it  is,  does  not 
suit  me.  Not  that  I  am  disposed  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  all 
society  and  become  a  hermit ;  but  I  do  not  like  fashionable 
society,  because  it  scarce  appears  to  me  to  deserve  the 
name.  At  heart,  I  should  always  be  disposed  to  be  a  social 
man.  But  men  are  so  utterly  selfish  and  carnally-minded 
in  the  mass,  that  I  am  not  fond  of  their  company  ;  and  wom- 
en, as  far  as  I  have  known  them,  are,  with  few  exceptions, 
so  much  '  lower  than  the  angels,'  that  I  rather  like  to  think 


36  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

of  them  than  le  with  them.  I  have  an  itching  for  something 
beyond  and  better  than  eating  and  drinking  and  money- 
making  ;  even  knowledge  and  fame,  it  appears  to  me,  pro- 
duce satiety.  I  am  never  contented  ;  at  rest  I  long  for  ac- 
tion, in  action  I  long  for  rest.  I  build  no  castles  in  the  air, 
form  no  plans  for  the  future,  look  forward  to  nothing,  and 
yet  I  am  not  what  others  think  me,  uninterested.  I  am 
always  interested,  and  that  far  more  deeply,  I  believe,  than 
most  are,  but  in  something  unreal  and  intangible,  in  some- 
thing not  future,  but,  if  I  may  be  paradoxical,  beyond  the 
future.  What  a  monstrous  deal  of  stuff  about  myself;  but 
remember,  it  may  be  my  last  chance." 

"  THIRTY  DAYS  IN  MY  BERTH.  —  A  Liverpool  packet  is 
a  palace  or  a  dungeon,  according  to  the  state  of  a  man's 
stomach.  To  me,  it  was  the  Black-Hole  of  Calcutta,  seven 
times  blackened. 

"  We  set  sail  from  New  York,  soon  after  the  great  north- 
east snow-storm,  in  January,  1831 ;  and  a  most  nipping  and 
eager  air  it  was,  that  wafted  us  from  New  Amsterdam.  It 
reduced  the  captain's  whiskers  one  half,  and  made  the  old 
bottle-nosed  storm-stemmer  look  like  a  frost-bitten  cabbage  ; 
and  the  gray-headed  pilot,  too,  though  he  had  drifted  twixt 
sea  and  shore  in  his  cockle-shell  for  half  a  century,  stamped 
about  like  a  first-chop  tragedian,  with  his  arms  knee-deep, 
as  they  say  in  Hibernia,  in  the  bags  of  his  monkey  jacket. 
As  for  my  own  self,  being  a  new  hand  in  salt-water  matters, 
and  feeling  an  instinctive  antipathy  to  a  cabin,  where  every 
thing  was  on  the  full  swing,  I  kept  on  deck  too  ;  and  looked 
up  at  the  sails,  and  down  at  the  sea,  and  forward  where  the 
bows  were  beginning  to  rise  and  fall  on  the  long  swell  ;  and 
thrashed  my  arms  and  legs  about,  and  tried  to  keep  warm, 
and  feel  wonderfully  contented.  But  it  would  not  do  ;  and 
when  the  pilot  got  into  his  little  Water-Witch,  I  came  within 
an  ace  of  straddling  the  bulwark  with  him  ;  but  then  I  re- 


YOUTH.  37 

membered  my  trunk  and  sweetmeats,  and,  holding  fast  to  a 
rope,  I  breathed  upon  the  tip  of  my  nose,  to  keep  the  life 
in,  and  became  sentimental. 

'Adieu,  adieu  !     My  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 
And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew.' 

"  The  last  trace  of  America  disappeared  ;  the  ship  rolled 
more,  and  more,  and  more ;  the  steward  called  me  to  tea. 
I  staggered  into  the  close,  hot  mahogany  cabin,  took  a  seat 
to  windward,  and  accepted  a  cup  of  that  nondescript  called 
by  sailors  tea;  but  when  I  put  this  same  compound  of  tar 
and  hot  water  to  my  mouth,  my  stomach  threw  itself  upon 
its  reserved  rights  ;  and  as  there  was  no  denying  that  this 
same  tar-tea  was  opposed  to  the  constitution  of  my  federal 
system,  and  fearing  that  the  complainant  might  nullify  at  an 
improper  moment,  I  made  a  dive  for  my  state-room  door, 
amid  the  congratulations  of  the  captain,  who  was  renovating 
his  countenance  with  a  bottle  of  porter,  and  a  cut.  of  cold 
roast  beef,  supported  by  fried  potatoes. 

"  I  reached  my  room,  pulled  off  my  coat  and  cravat, 
kicked  my  shoes  under  the  berth,  and  stepped  into  the  soli- 
tary chair  for  the  purpose  of  gaining  my  bed  ;  when  a  sud- 
den lurch  of  the  ship  capsized  the  chair,  and  sent  me  head- 
foremost into  the  cabin,  where  I  landed  safe  on  my  back 
under  the  captain's  stool.  '  Good  God  ! '  said  he,  dropping 
a  large  slice  of  fried  potato  into  my  face,  '  what's  the  mat- 
ter ? '  I  had  but  little  breath  to  spare,  and  so  the  steward 
dragged  me  out  by  the  legs,  and  stowed  me  safe  under  the 
counterpane,  breeches  and  all ;  while  his  superior  looked  on, 
and  inquired  through  his  mouthful  of  beef  if  I  would  not 
take  a  little  porter  after  my  fall.  Bah  ! 

"  For  the  next  forty-eight  hours  I  was  insensible  ;  once  or 
twice  they  brought  me  near  enough  to  the  land  of  the  living 
to  make  me  swallow  a  little  cold  water,  but  otherwise  I  was 

VOL.  i.  4 


33  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

collapsed.  On  the  third  day,  my  mind  opened  its  eyes 
again.  It  was  a  beautiful,  warm  forenoon,  they  told  me,  and 
so  the  steward  took  me  up  fore  and  aft,  carried  me  on  deck, 
and  stowed  me  away  in  the  long  boat,  among  some  old  sails. 
Here  I  found  one  of  my  two  fellow-passengers,  and  a  more 
forlorn  figure  never  crossed  my  vision. 

"  Mr.  B was  a  Montreal  merchant  ;  he  had  a  body 

five  feet  five  inches  high,  and  that  might  weigh,  feet  and  all, 
eighty  pounds;  and  a  mind  nearly  half  as  large  as  its  dwell- 
ing-house. He  was  enveloped  in  a  white  surtout,  and  cow- 
hide boots ;  from  above  the  collar  of  his  surtout  sprouted  a 
fungus-like  head,  defended  from  the  winds  and  rains  of 
heaven  by  twenty-five  or  thirty  long,  colorless  hairs,  seem- 
ingly made  of  a  spider's  web;  to  assist  which,  he  had  called 
in  the  aid  of  an  immense  otter-skin  cap,  calculated  for  the 
wear  of  some  Canadian  hunter,  across  the  mouth  of  which 
had  been  rigged  up  a  sort  of  network  of  red  and  green 
twine,  such  as  we  tie  up  quills  with,  to  prevent  this  formida- 
ble friend  from  slipping  down  and  extinguishing  him.  His 
eyes  were  undoubtedly  eyes,  but  they  seemed  to  be  all  white, 
with  only  a  little  aperture  in  the  centre  to  look  through  ;  and 
for  his  nose,  I  will  not  describe  it  otherwise  than  by  refer- 
ring you  to  a  ploughshare,  mottled  white  and  blue.  But, 
his  mouth,  —  it  was  the  mouth  that  marked  the  man  ;  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  appeared  to  have  passed  through  a 
rolling-mill,  and  his  teeth  and  tongue  inhabited  an  open 
country,  having  six  inches  perhaps,  of  frontier,  and  extend- 
ing back  to  an  unknown  distance  ;  he  had  thirty-five  teeth 
at  least. 

"  Mr.  B ,  not  as  I  have  described  him,  but  in  the  state 

such  a  man  would  be  in  when  sea-sick,  with  an  invisible 
beard  half  an  inch  long,  and  a  sky-blue  tippet  about  his 
neck,  was  soliloquizing  upon  a  roast  potato  and  a  bit  of  cod- 
fish, in  the  sternsheets  of  the  long-boat,  when  the  steward 
threw  me  in  beside  him.  '  By  the  by,1  said  Mr.  B , 


YOUTH.  39 

*  how  are  you  to-day  ?  '  I  could  only  answer  by  dropping 
my  under  jaw.  The  Canadian  comprehended  me,  and 
offered  me  the  skin  of  his  potato. 

"It  was  in  truth  a  beautiful  day.  Though  in  the  middle  of 
January,  the  air  was  warm  and  pleasant  ;  the  sea  was  com- 
paratively calm,  though  the  pitching  of  the  ship  made  me 
dizzy,  as  the  remembrance  of  it  does  now.  We  were  going 
merrily  on  our  way,  under  a  sufficiency  of  sail,  and  the 
men  were  at  work  repairing  the  fore-yard,  which  had  been 
injured  two  nights  before  in  a  squall.  I  began  to  think  I 
might  like  the  ocean  yet,  and  intimated  as  much  to  my  fel- 
low-sufferer. '  Ah,'  said  he,  'by  the  by, so  I  thought  my- 
self.' But  hope  is  as  notable  a  hussy  at  sea  as  on  shore, 
and  when  I  had  eaten  a  plate  of  rice  tinctured  with  molasses, 
and  drank  a  tumbler  of  wine  and  water,  I  found  it  advisable 
to  call  all  hands  and  take  to  my  berth  again. 

"  Why  is  it  that  nobody  will  sympathize  with  a  person 
when  suffering  under  the  two  most  purgatorial  troubles  of 
this  world,  sea-sickness  and  disappointed  love  ?  Let  a  man 
have  a  headache,  or  a  twinge  of  rheumatics,  and  who  thinks 
of  laughing  at  him  ?  But  let  him  be  cast  into  a  state  of 
mind  and  body  when  life  is  a  burden,  —  food,  rank  poison, — 
hope,  energy,  and  every  thing  else  gone,  —  and  he  is  fair 
game.  It  is  a  disgrace  to  civilized  man.  And  just  so  when 
a  poor  fellow  embarks  in  chase  of  a  wife  ;  let  but  the  jade 
play  him  foul,  cut  the  throat  of  his  affections,  and  strip  the 
skin  from  his  heart,  and  he  is  sure  to  be  attacked  by  every 
other  member  of  the  community.  I  say  again  it  is  a  dis- 
grace to  civilized  man.  And  so  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  lay 
grinding  my  teeth,  and  heard  the  captain  discuss  me  with  the 
one  sound  passenger,  by  name  Mr.  S ,  over  a  roast  tur- 
key and  cranberry  sauce. 

"  This  Mr.  S ,  as  I  afterward  discovered,  was  quite  a 

character.  He  was  a  revolutionist  to  the  back-bone,  a  deist, 
a  linguist,  a  chemist,  and  a  rank  heretic  on  every  subject 


40  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

but  the  excellence  of  brandy.  He  was  a  man  of  talent, 
but  self-educated,  conceited,  and  a  bigot.  lie  began  bis  life 
in  a  pottery  ;  but  finding  that  within  him  which  aspired  to 
something  above  the  fashioning  of  clay,  he  ran  off,  and 
went  to  sea,  and  became  at  last  a  cabin-boy  in  a  man-of-war. 
This  he  liked  very  well,  but  one.  day  while  in  port  he  un- 
luckily drank  more  grog  than  came  to  his  share,  and,  in  the 
course  of  the  capers  whereby  he  let  off  the  super-excite.nent, 
broke  the  cabin  mirror,  and  being  of  op'nion  that  desertion 
was  the  only  true  kind  of  valor,  at  any  rate  in  cabin-boys, 
he  dropped  from  the  window  at  midnight,  and  swam  ashore, 
carrying  in  his  pocket  a  roll  of  money  which  he  took  from 
the  captain's  locker,  thinking,  doubtless,  in  the  hurry  and 
darkness,  that  he  was  taking  a  shirt  out  of  his  own  empty 
chest. 

"  He  next  turned  the  face  of  his  multiform  genius  to  mak- 
ing up  pills,  and  compounding  nameless  doses  in  the  back 
shop  of  what  is  called  in  England  a  chemist  and  druggist, 
i.  e.  an  apothecary.  From  his  worthy  master  in  this  line,  he 
imbibed  the  spirit  of  reform  that  was  fairly  devouring  him  ; 
from  him  came  his  ideas  of  government,  of  professional 
men,  upon  whom  he  looked  down  with  great  contempt,  and 
of  various  other  important  matters. 

"And  Mr.  S was  no  mere  talker;  he  had  done  all  in 

his  power  to  overthrow  the  British  monarchy  ;  and  failing 
in  that,  he  had  moved  to  America,  where  he  intended  to 
bring  about  a  reform  that  should  be  felt  through  every  de- 
partment of  the  government,  and  every  section  of  the  coun- 
try. He  meant  to  reduce  the  price  of  soda-powders  one 
half.  He  had,  moreover,  made  some  progress  in  a  new 
dictionary  of  our  language,  the  first  word  of  which  was  to 
be  '  truth,'  the  second  '  knowledge,'  and  the  third  '  belief  ; 
the  fourth  he  had  not  quite  fixed  upon  ;  the  plan  was  philo- 
sophical, and  he  meant  to  make  the  study  of  his  diction- 
ary the  best  means  of  attaining  all  knowledge.  '  I  will  de- 


YOUTH.  41 

fine  truth,  Sir,'  said  he,  '  show  the  relation  between  truth 
and  knowledge,  and  between  knowledge  and  belief,  and  so 
go  on  to  all  that  man's  mind  has  elaborated,  that  in  this  one 
work  every  thing  shall  be  stated,  not  separately,  but  in  such 
connections,  and  so  illustrated,  that  we  shall  need  no  libra- 
ries and  no  encyclopaedias.'  Mr.  S was  fifty,  probably, 

and  had  advanced  three  words  toward  accomplishing  this 
small  work.  He  had,  moreover,  a  system  of  laws  on  the 
stocks  ;  and  a  plan  of  society  which  should  dispense  with 
all  professions.  His  idea  was  to  educate  every  child  in  law, 
medicine,  and  boxing  ;  the  rest  was  mere  luxury.  He  was 
a  man  of  considerable  reading,  and  untiring  industry ;  in 
his  pocket  he  carried  his  ink-horn,  pen,  and  note-book,  and 
not  an  idle  moment  checkered  his  existence  ;  from  mental 
he  went  to  bodily  exercise,  from  bodily  back  to  mental  ; 
and,  if  the  chance  offered,  would  crack  an  argument  with 
great  relish. 

"  I  was  in  my  berth  the  whole  passage,  sick  as  any  could 
wish  his  worst  foe,  with  now  and  then  a  lucid  interval  of 
half  an  hour.  On  these  occasions,  the  reformer  used  to  fas- 
ten upon  me  with  infinite  satisfaction  ;  and  he  gave  me  an 
insight  into  one  of  the  strangest  minds  I  have  ever  wrestled 
with. 

"  The  mainspring  of  all  his  heterodox  notions  was,  not 
bad  feeling  or  insanity,  either  of  head  or  heart,  but  simple 
vanity ;  and  this  is  the  case,  I  believe,  with  nine  out  of  ten 
of  such  men  ;  they  are  too  conceited  to  see  an  error,  into 
which  conceit  perhaps  first  led  them,  and  die  in  their  unbe- 
lief. But  he  had  more  uncommon  qualities  than  vanity  ;  he 
had  a  mixture  of  good  and  bad  principle,  of  wisdom  and 
folly,  of  clearness  and  confusedness,  that  I  never  saw  equal- 
led. As  I  lay  in  my  state-room,  I  used  to  hear  him  at 
times  rubbing  up  the  Canadian. 

" '  Pray,'  said  he  to  him  one  day,  '  pray,  Mr.  B ,  who 

do  you  think  wrote  the  New  Testament  ?  '  Mr.  B ,  to- 

4* 


42  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

tally  unsuspicious  of  any  trick,  and  too  much  of  a  merchant 
to  appear  ignorant,  answered  promptly,  '  Doubtless,  Sir,  it 

was  Peter.'     'And  did  Peter,  think  you,  Mr.  H ,  write 

Paul's  Epistles?  '  The  Canadian  was  dumb-foundered  ;  but 
feeling  himself  in  a  marsh,  he  concluded  it  best  not  to  go  too 
deep ;  and  so,  opening  his  mouth,  very  much  as  a  clam 
opens  his  shell  when  the  tide  is  coming  in,  he  sent  forth  a 
long-spun  '  VVhy-y-y,'  to  cover  his  retreat,  and  observed, 
4  By  the  by,  I  think  Paul  did  live  about  that  time.'  '  And 
pray,  Sir,'  said  the  apothecary,  '  was  it  Paul  or  Peter  that 

wrote  St.  John's  Gospel  ? '     Mr.  B was  a  quiet  man  and 

a  coward,  but,  like  many  four-legged  cowards,  force  him 
into  a  corner,  and  he  would  fight  with  the  energy  of  de- 
spair;  in  such  a  corner  he  was  at  present,  and  turning  upon 
his  persecutor,  with  a  boldness  little  expected  by  the  man 
of  salts,  he  said  calmly,  '  You  speak  of  the  New  Testament, 

Mr.  S .     St.  John's  (lospel  is  not  in  that  work.'     This 

was  a  poser;  there  was  no  argument  left  to  Mr.  S but 

to  produce  the  book.  But  not  a  Testament  was  to  bo 
found  ;  the  captain  was  asleep  ;  I  was  so,  too,  in  appearance, 
and  Mr.  B triumphed.  His  opponent  took  the  only  re- 
venge in  his  power,  he  entered  the  Canadian  in  his  note- 
book, and  went  on  deck,  to  jump  rope. 

"  Thirty  days  on  one's  back  is  no  joke,  at  least  to  a  man 
whose  bones  are  prominent.  My  shoulder-blades  had  cut 
through  the  sacking  before  we  had  been  out  a  fortnight.  At 
last  we  entered  the  Channel  ;  the  sea  was  smooth,  and  as  I 
stood  on  deck,  and  eat  Newtown  pippins  and  watched  the 
gulls,  I  felt  really  in  heaven  ;  and  when  dinner  came,  and 
the  roast  turkey  and  cranberry,  it  was  tenfold  Elysium. 
We  passed  the  blue  heights  of  Dungarven,  the  green  shores 
of  Wexford  ;  the  lights  of  the  Mi.xen-head,  and  the  Wick- 
low-head  ;  in  due  time  doubled  the  Ilolyhead  isle,  and  with 
the  Welsh  mountains  on  our  right,  the  heaving  sea  on  our 
left,  and  athousand  small  fry  all  about  us,  before  a  snorting 


YOUTH.  43 

breeze  we  sped  on  to  Liverpool,  the  American  city  of  Old 
England." 

"  London,  March  1st,  1831.  Let  me  instruct  you  in  my 
way  and  fashion  of  life.  I  inhabit  a  very  small  room,  hav- 
ing five  sides,  and  fronting  upon  Leicester  Square;  one  side 
of  my  room  is  taken  up  by  the  window,  a  second  by  the 
door,  a  third  by  the  fireplace,  a  fourth  by  my  bed,  and  the 
fifth  accommodates  my  bureau  and  myself.  I  rise  at  seven 
or  half  past,  and  walk  till  nine,  breakfast,  study  French  and 
algebra  till  twelve,  read  Shakspeare  or  Milton  till  two,  and 
walk  again  till  three,  when  I  go  to  my  eating-house  and 
dine.  After  dinner  I  read  or  write  till  dusk,  then  walk  an 
hour,  going  down  into  the  by-roads  and  hidden  paths,  re- 
turn, drink  tea,  and  read  or  write  again.  Occasionally,  say 
twice  a  week,  I  take  tea  and  spend  the  evening  out,  and 
once  a  week,  or  perhaps  twice,  dine  out." 

FANNY  A.  KEMBLE.  — "  March  21,  1831.  For  two 
weeks  I  did  not  go  to  the  theatre,  but  Monday  I  went  to 
see  Miss  Kemble,  and  the  consequence  was,  I  have  been 
every  time  she  has  played  since,  and  mean  to  go  every  time 
she  plays  again,  if  I  have  to  pawn  my  last  shirt  to  buy  a 
ticket.  I  have  a  ticket  for  next  Monday  night,  when  she 
plays  Constance  in  King  John.  It  is  her  benefit,  and  the 
tickets  (box  tickets,  dress  circles)  are  all  signed  by  her.  I 
will  give  you  an  autograph ;  —  but  it  wont  do  to  put  it  here, 
for  it  deserves  to  be  kept  as  a  valuable  legacy.  In  playing 
she  very  much  resembles  Mrs.  Siddons,  as  she  appears  by 
a  print  in  the  number  '  On  the  Stage,'  of  Percy  Anecdotes ; 
but  then  she  is  a  very  beautiful  girl,  in  feature  ;  and  in  ex- 
pression,—  soul,  mind!  essence!!  quintessence!!!  cen- 
tessence !  ! ! !  I  should  wish  to  be  moderate  and  reasonable 
in  what  I  say  in  praise  of  her,  so  I  will  merely  remark  that 
I  think,  if  any  thing  will  ever  tempt  me  to  cross  the  Atlantic 
again,  it  will  be  the  hope  of  seeing  Fanny  Kemble. 


44  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  What  a  beautiful  hand  she  writes  for  an  autograph  !  * 
Examine  it.  The  F, —  you  may  see  the  firmness  in  the 
top,  and  in  the  bottom  the  grief,  the  drooping,  of  a  Juliet. 
The  A,  —  it  is  a  character  in  itself;  the  beginning  strong 
and  well  defined,  the  strokes,  however,  toward  the  cen- 
tre becoming  finer  and  nicer,  to  bring  forth  more  power- 
fully the  close  ;  presently  the  plot  thickens,  there  is  a  burst 
of  passion,  a  flood  of  tears,  a  shudder,  a  faint  groan,  — and 
she  is  carried  oflf  insensible.  But  now  observe  the  K  ;  — 

'  There  is  a  laughing  devil  in  its  sneer  ' ; 

it  is  a  maze  of  scorn,  hatred,  love,  grief,  repentance.  Me- 
thinks,  as  I  look  at  it,  I  see  her  as  she  was  in  Fasio,  hanging 
upon  the  neck  of  a  husband  whom  she  has  given  over  to 
death  from  excess  of  love.  Presently  the  bell  tolls,  her 
hands  drop  powerless  to  her  side,  her  long  black  hair  covers 
her  shoulders,  and  as  she  leans  a  little  forward  a  single  tress 
falls  across  her  bosom  ;  the  mouth  is  just  open,  the  lips 
slightly  parted  ;  her  eye  is  like  the  eye  of  a  living  statue ; 
the  brow  is  a  little  bent.  The  bell  tolls  again  ;  she  starts, 
but  he  is  gone  —  to  the  scaffold.  She  springs  after  him; 
and  the  cry  of  '  He  is  not  guilty,'  which  she  gave,  is  ring- 
ing in  my  ears  yet.  VV^e  will  pass  the  intermediate  parts, 
and  come  to  the  closing  scene.  You  may  see  it  in  the  last 
joint  of  the  K,  —  the  strong  down  and  light  upward  stroke. 
Her  husband  is  executed  ;  —  the  woman  owing  to  whom  all 
has  been  brought  to  pass  is  making  merry  with  the  prince  at 
home.  Anon,  the  music  and  dance  cease  for  a  moment ; 
a  door  at  the  back  opens,  and  a  figure  clothed  in  white,  and 
pale  as  the  dead,  is  seen.  The  music  strikes  up,  and  the 
dancing  commences  again  ;  at  that  instant  comes  a  laugh, — 
heard  above  the  music  and  noise,  —  that  might  make  '  the 
boldest  hold  his  breath,'  and  in  a  moment  she  is  in  the 

*  In  the  margin  a  fac-simile  is  given. 


YOUTH.  45 

midst  of  them.  The  long,  jet-black  hair,  which  half  hides 
her  face,  makes  its  extreme  paleness  the  more  apparent ; 
her  finger  points  to  her  enemy ;  you  yet  hear  a  low  laugh 
of  scorn,  and  the  eye  and  the  lip  are  in  unison.  Her  story 
is  told,  her  prayer  granted,  her  enemy  banished.  Then  be- 
gins the  upward  stroke ;  the  smile  leaves  her  lip,  the  brow 
is  open  again,  she  puts  back  her  hair,  and  her  voice  regains 
its  softness.  There  is  no  stage  effect,  no  straining  for  atti- 
tudes, no  studied  emphasis  or  gesture.  It  is  all  soul,  and 
from  the  soul  goes  to  the  soul.  I  took  out  my  handkerchief 
three  times  during  the  play  ;  twice  to  blow  my  nose,  and 
once  to  get  something  out  of  my  eye !  Then  observe  the 
figure  she  cuts  in  '  21 ' ;  it  agrees  with  the  figure  she  cuts  at 
twenty-one, —  a  most  original  figure.  But  you  read  her 
character  in  it  as  in  all,  —  more  strength  than  grace,  more 
nature  than  art,  more  almost  any  thing  than  twenty-one, 
and  neither  does  she  seem  twenty-one." 

"  London,  April  1st,  To-morrow  I  leave  London,  most 
like  for  ever,  and  that  before  I  have  become  fully  con- 
vinced I  am  there.  When  I  look  at  a  map  of  the  world,  it 
requires  an  effort  of  imagination  to  believe  that  I  am  where 
I  am,  —  in  this  renowned  city  of  cities.  When  at  home,  I 
used  to  speculate  of  such  things ;  thought  I  should  go  mad 
with  joy  were  I  to  see  England.  But  so  true  is  it  that  the 
world  we  live  in  is  within  rather  than  without  us,  that  here  I 
scarce  feel  I  am  here,  and  going  hence  scarce  know  that  it 
is  England  which  I  leave.  The  voyage,  my  daily  life, 
every  thing,  to  my  mind,  is  tinged  with  romance.  So  little 
have  I  felt  that  I  was  actually  in  LONDON,  and  but  for  a 
time,  that  had  we  not  been  detained  beyond  our  safling  day, 
I  should  never  have  seen  Westminster  Abbey ;  and  unless 
we  are  detained  another  day,  I  shall  not  see  the  inside  of 
St.  Paul's,  though  I  have  passed  it  every  day  since  my 
arrival.  Don't  lament  my  mental  paralysis.  It  is  not  want 


46  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

of  curiosity  ;  —  but  I  am  too  much  at  home  with  myself  not 
to  feel  at  home  with  any  thing  and  every  thing  about  me, 
and  in  consequence  am  here  as  if  t  were  in  Boston.  The 
older  I  grow,  too,  the  less  curiosity  do  I  feel  about  the  works 
of  man,  and  the  more  about  man  himself  and  his  fellow- 
creatures.  Were  I  in  the  country,  I  should  be  eternally 
upon  the  go." 

Castries,  May.  "  We  arrived  at  Barbadoes  a  week  ago 
to-day.  There  I  remained  till  Monday,  and  then  sailed  for 
this  port  in  a  packet-boat.  Our  vessel  was  about  as  long  as 
a  steamer  is  broad,  and,  save  six  feet  of  quarter-deck,  was 
under  water,  while  every  ten  minutes  a  wave  would  wash 
all  fore  and  aft.  To  get  to  my  bed  I  had  to  lower  myself 
down  through  a  hole  in  the  deck,  just  big  enough  to  admit 
my  body  ;  then  lie  flat  on  my  belly,  and  creep  over  the 
cases,  which  were  piled  up  to  within  a  foot  of  the  deck. 
Once  there,  we  all  bundled  in  together,  black,  white,  and 
gray  ;  then  the  hole  through  which  we  entered  was  closed, 
and  we  were  left  to  stew  !  In  the  night,  if  any  one  wished 
to  get  out,  he  must  clamber  across  all  the  rest.  I  had  two 
or  three  feet  on  my  head,  and  put  my  own  on  two  or  three 
others.  I  had  not  slept  for  two  nights,  or,  salamander  as  I 
am,  I  could  not  have  borne  it.  In  the  morning  we  turned 
out  to  breakfast,  which  was  served  up  in  true  West  India 
style.  A  pottage  compounded  of  chicken,  pork,  salt-fish, 
yams,  charcoal,  and  tar,  and  a  dish  of  fly  ing- fish  roasted  on 
the  coals,  —  these  were  set  upon  deck,  and  round  them  we 
all  squatted,  fingers  serving  for  knife,  fork,  and  platter.  The 
rest  made  a  meal  of  it,  and  I  made  faces  at  it.  Claret, 
verging  towards  vinegar,  and  rain-water  was  our  beverage, 
the  whole  topped  off  with  a  draught  of  ginger  tea,  drank  — 
how  ?  —  why,  as  it  should  be,  —  from  the  nose  of  the  tea- 
kettle. Each  wiped  oflf  the  soot  with  his  sleeve,  and  swig- 
ged. Now  observe  nationality  !  The  company  were  all 


YOUTH.  47 

French,  save  I,  and  after  breakfast  a  bucket  of  water  was 
put  in  the  centre,  and  each  washed  his  mouth  and  dipped 
his  fingers,  as  though  it  were  a  glass  bowl  at  a  dinner-party. 
I  paid  $16  for  a  passage  of  fifteen  hours." 

Castries,  May.  "  Fortunately  you  are  not  a  merchant, 
and  know  not  mercantile  troubles.  Void  !  A  gentleman 
invites  me  to  his  house,  treats  me  as  kindly  as  possible, 
does  all  in  his  power  for  me,  —  and  what  then?  Why,  I 
must  —  must,  observe  ye  —  try  to  bargain  him,  coax  him, 
drive  him,  cheat  him,  out  of  a  dollar  or  two.  I  'd  rather 
lose  a  leg  ;  and  yet  if  I  don't  I  'm  a  fool,  a  greenhorn,  and 
he  'ZZ  take  me  in,  because  7  wouldn't  serve  him  so.  If  I  ever 
get  home  again,  I  '11  quit  trade  for  ever  and  aye.  My  love 
of  rambling  has  not  decreased,  though  I  am  lowering  rny 
notions  of  things  and  rnen  a  peg  or  two  every  day  ;  but  I 
cannot  ramble  as  I  please,  and  I  'd  rather  be  nailed  to  a 
door-post  than  go  on  as  I  am  going.  I  think  worse  and 
worse,  I  say,  of  men.  Of  those  I  meet  with,  there  are  but 
few  for  whom  I  have  much  respect  ;  of  man  in  the  general 
I  can,  of  course,  think  neither  better  nor  worse,  while  I 
know  so  little  of  him.  The  West  Indians  are  —  if  I  may 
take  the  ones  I  see,  and  they  are  the  first  class  —  little 
better  than  beasts.  Slavery  has  done  more  hurt  to  the 
whites  than  the  blacks.  Honesty  is  rare  here  ;  morality  is 
an  exotic,  and  if  it  is  brought  in,  the  climate  kills  it ;  relig- 
ion,—  do  men  'gather  grapes  of  thistles'?  They  make 
no  attempt  to  defend  slavery,  save  by  this  one  argument :  — 
4  We  can't  make  money  without  niggers.'  The  captain  of 
the  vessel  I  came  out  in  used  to  hold  frequent  arguments 
with  me  upon  this  same  question.  He  was  a  fiery,  hot- 
headed, good-natured,  easy,  obstinate,  gallimaufry  sort  of  a 
creature,  his  doctrine  being  the  old  one,  that  '  Slaves  are 

happier  than  they  would    be   if  free.'      '  He  'd  be  d d, 

for  his  part,  if  he  would   not   make  the  poor  rascals   about 


48  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

England  slaves,  if  he  could  ;  't  would  be  a  grand  stroke 
in  political  economy,  clear  Great  Britain  of  its  surplus, 
stock  the  colonies,  and  make  all  parties  happy,  for  the 
now  naked  and  starving  would  then  be  well  fed  and  clothed.' 
The  mate,  who  was  the  captain's  antipodes,  as  well  as 
antipathy,  used  to  answer  this  to  the  great  credit  of  his 
organ  of  causality.  He  took  for  granted  two  things,  — 
1  that  all  men  had  a  right  to  be  free,'  and  '  that  slaves  are 
men';  and  thence  proceeded  to  argue,  'that  slaves  had  a 
right  to  be  free.'  In  his  conclusion  he  was  certainly  log- 
ical, and  if  his  argument  was  not  very  straight,  it  was,  like 
the  tower  at  Pisa,  the  more  remarkable  fur  its  obliquity. 
'Sir,'  said  he,  'you  might  as  well  say  the  king's  horses 
are  men,  because  they  are  well  lodged.''' 

Castries,  May.  "  It  is  a  proverb  '  something  musty,'  that 
habit  is  a  second  nature  ;  and  I  have  been  seeing  it  proved 
in  a  manner  that  made  my  blood  run  cold.  When  1  went 
to  receive  my  French  lesson  this  morning 

"  But,  by  the  way,  I  have  never  told  you  the  story  of 
my  schooling  here.  It  is  briefly  this.  There  are,  in  this 
town  of  Castries,  two  young  ladies,  ranging  from  eighteen 
to  twenty,  who,  being  natives,  are  totally  unable  to  speak 
English  ;  I  being  equally  minus  in  French,  and,  truth  to 
tell,  a  strong  electrical  attraction  existing  between  us,  it  was 
finally  arranged  that  we  should  make  an  exchange.  Ac- 
cordingly I  teach  them  English,  and  they  teach  me  French, 
—  tcte-d-ti-le.  I  assure  you  it  is  very  interesting  and  ro- 
mantic. 

"  Well,  this  morning  when  I  went,  I  found  them,  as  usual, 
in  the  midst  of  their  slaves,  embroidering  '  in  the  true  old 
Greek  style'  ;  and  a  slave,  a  girl  of  six  or  seven,  having 
made  some  mistake  or  other,  received  a  small  blow  from 
the  riding-whip,  which  always  hangs  by  the  table  to  keep 
order  with.  The  child  very  naturally  cried,  and  the  con- 


YOUTH.  49 

sequence  of  the  crying  was,  that  one  of  the  young  ladies,  — 
a  kinder,  gentler,  more  woman-like  woman  I  never  knew  ; 
she  would  not  crush  a  worm  or  hurt  a  fly  if  she  could  avoid 
it ;  but  such  is  habit,  —  this  young  lady  took  the  rod  in  hand 
to  correct  the  girl,  and,  without  the  least  passion  apparently, 
coolly  and  considerately,  she  thrashed  with  that  horsewhip 
the  poor  child  till  she  could  scarcely  walk  !  Her  sister,  mean- 
while, was  no  more  moved,  than  if  the  beating  had  been  on 
a  block  of  wood  !  I  pitied  the  slave,  but  I  pitied  her  mistress 
more.  She  has  been  used  to  seeing  punishment,  and  inflict- 
ing punishment,  through  her  whole  life  ;  and  to  the  suffering 
of  a  slave,  because  it  is  a  slave,  is  callous.  She  would  not 
for  the  world  have  treated  a  dog  so. 

"  Can  any  thing  seem  stranger,  more  contradictory,  more 
out  of  nature,  than  this  story  ?  I  beg  you  to  say  nothing  of  it, 
for  the  honor  of  our  species.  I  would  have  kept  it  to  myself, 
but  I  can't  find  room  for  it  in  the  portion  of  my  mind  which 
is  set  apart  for  the  horrible  ;  it  will  out.  Here  is  a  new  trait 
in  one  whom  I  have,  till  now,  really  respected.  You  may 
be  of  the  belief,  that  I  hold  the  '  fair  sex,'  as  they  are  call- 
ed, —  and  I  wish  there  was  another  name,  for  I  abominate 
this  distinction  of  sexes,  —  in,  if  not  utter  contempt,  at  least 
rather  low  estimation.  But  in  this  you  have  greatly  mis- 
taken me.  I  am  not  of  the school,  and  do  not  fancy 

'  eyeses  and  noses  '  and  all  that  trash,  but  I  do  fancy  the  true 
woman,  —  if  any  such  there  be  ;  and  that  is  the  secret  of  my 
secrecy-  I  have  a  beau-ideal  of  my  own,  a  picture  ready 
painted  to  my  mind,  and  in  my  mind,  and  I  am  but  waiting 
to  find  a  likeness  among  the  living.  But,  as  you  once  said, 
I  am  of  opinion  we  must  have  '  a  new  race  par  tout,''  or  I 
shall  never  be  satisfied.  I  'm  sorry,  but  as  my  sorrow  is 
all  my  own,  why  should  I  trouble  you  with  it  ?  " 

June.  —  "I  read  a  West  India  planter's  will  yesterday.    It 
was  three  pages  of  legacies  to  his  natural  offspring  and  their 
VOL.  I.  5 


50  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

unnalural  mothers,  —  his  own  slaves,  of  course  ;  and  in  con- 
clusion he  said,  that,  '  for  the  quiet  repose  of  his  spirit,  he 
wished  to  have  his  body  laid  near  to  the  spot  where  his  slaves 
were  wont  to  bathe,  that  his  grave  might  be  watered  by  their 
tears  ' ;  or  by  other  salt  water,  I  suppose  indifferently.  It 
was  a  regular  French  mixture  ;  —  a  compound  of  sensuality, 
sentiment,  vanity,  politeness,  and  independence  ;  an  Eng- 
lishman could  not  have  dreamed  even  of  such  a  thing.  I 
can  compare  it  to  nothing  but  a  piece  of  fat  pork  served  up 
in  cream,  with  a  few  onions  about  the  plate,  touched  through- 
out with  oil,  and  sprinkled  with  ginger." 

June.  —  "  This  evening  I  put  on  my  old  coat,  took  my 
umbrella,  —  nobody  here  walks  without  an  umbrella,  —  and 
strolled  down  to  the  beach.  The  sun  was  just  setting.  Along 
the  west  lay  a  bank  of  dark,  heavy  clouds,  brought  into 
strong  and  beautiful  relief  by  the  tinted  sky  beyond,  and 
the  light,  fleecy  clouds,  that  lay  higher  up  in  the  heaven, 
green,  and  gold,  and  crimson, — as  it  were  a  half-visible 
paradise.  In  the  front  ground  was  the  steep,  solitary  hill 
upon  the  right  hand  of  the  harbour,  and  the  harbour  itself, — 
as  calm  as  though  it  had  ceased  its  motion  to  gaze  upon  the 
heavens  above.  Yet,  from  the  changing  of  the  tints,  you 
might  see  that  the  unceasing  roll  of  ocean  was  felt  even 
here  ;  and  there  was  a  perceptible  rise  and  fall,  too,  of  the 
schooner  which  lay  dark  and  silently  upon  the  water,  with 
her  useless  sail  hansjing  idly  from  the  boom.  A  single  water- 
bird  was  flitting  along  the  imaged  skies,  and  now  and  then 
a  fish  would  leap  and  disturb  the  perfect  mirror;  but  wave 
after  wave  circled  away,  fainter  and  fainter,  till  all  was  still 
again. 

"  I  was  leaning  against  a  tamarind-tree,  recalling  a  thousand 
such  evenings  gone,  — long  gone  by,  —  and  meditating  with 
little  of  hope  upon  the  future.  I  wished  to  find  a  subject  to 
write  upon,  and  my  mind,  what  with  the  inaudible  music  of 


YOUTH.  51 

the  scene  before  me,  and  that  which  came  breathing  from 
the  past,  was  well  disposed  to  think  of  man  as  he  should  be, 
to  fancy  him  in  a  garden  of  Eden,  with  no  forbidden  fruit. 
Presently,  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder.  I  turned  round. 
It  was  that  of  an  old  friend  of  mine,  of  perhaps  fifty  years, 
—  not  too  drunk  to  be  able  to  stand  alone,  nor  too  sober  to 
refuse  the  arm  of  the  negress,  —  his  negress,  —  upon  whom 
he  was  leaning.  I  don't  know  what  he  said,  but  I  do  know 
that  I  came  home  with  a  sick  headache,  and  gave  up  my 
garden  of  Eden." 

June.  —  "  You  used  to  smile  at  my  indifference  —  or  as- 
sumed indifference  as  I  suppose  you  thought  it  —  respecting 
little  troubles,  and,  if  I  am  not  much  out,  you  thought  it 
arose  from  a  sort  of  callousness  of  feeling.  But  you  were 
as  much  mistaken  as  if  you  had  referred  it  to  the  toothache. 
It  was,  I  verily  believe,  true  philosophy,  —  the  genuine, — 
not  Stoicism,  but  something  better.  By  nature  I  am  inclined 
to  be  in  a  pet  at  trifles  as  much  as,  nay,  more  than  most 
persons ;  but  I  have  seen  so  much  pain,  actual  suffering, 
from  this  fretfulness  in  others,  that  I  have  wished  to  spare 
myself,  and  par  consequence  have  done  all  I  can  to  bring 
my  mind  and  body  into  such  a  state,  that  things  which  I 
cannot  influence  shall  not  put  either  into  a  fever.  Since  I 
have  been  from  home,  I  have  found  my  reward.  Matters 
at  which  I  should  formerly  have  fidgeted  terribly  have 
troubled  me  no  more  than  mosquito-bites  ;  they  were  un- 
pleasant, nothing  more,  and  I  have  let  them  have  their  own 
way,  rather  than  scratch  off  the  skin  and  make  a  fester  of 
it.  With  matters  which  /  can  control,  it  is  quite  otherwise  ; 
but  how  few  can  we  control !  and  most  of  those  at  which 
men  fret  are  past,  and  consequently  past  control.  The  cap- 
tain with  whom  I  came  from  England  was  miserable  from 
morning  to  night  about  nothing, —  he  was  a  very  tornado, — 
and  yet  thought  himself  as  patient  as  Job.  How  ridiculous  it 


52  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

was  to  see  the  man  foaming  at  the  mouth  almost,  because 
his  dinner  was  overdone,  or  there  was  no  butter  to  the 
fish  !  Again,  when  I  arrived  here,  I  found  affairs  in  such  a 
state,  that  there  seemed  no  prospect  of  doing  any  thing  ex- 
cept perhaps  getting  into  difficulty.  I  was  sorry,  yet  did 
not  rip  out  against  the  French  Revolution,  and  I  know  not 
what  all ;  but  my  more  gunpowderish  friends  did,  and  fell, 
some  of  them,  into  a  terrible  passion,  because  I  was  10  be 
disappointed,  though  I,  the  person  interested,  kept  very 
cool.  It  was  great  generosity  in  them  to  be  mad  for  me,  I 
grant ;  but  it  was  the  generosity  of  the  man  who  would  take 
a  dose  of  castor-oil  because  his  friend  was  like  to  die  of  a 
fever ;  not  that  of  Ben  Pump,  who  got  into  the  stocks  beside 
Leatherstocking." 

June.  —  "There  is  nothing  here  surprises  me  more  than 
the  development  of  acquisitiveness,  which  organ  shines  out 
in  all  its  glory.  Men  come  from  Europe,  and  spend  their 
lives  here,  without  families,  society,  books,  amusement,  or 
improvement  of  any  sort,  putting  money  to  their  purse,  and 
that  is  all  ;  and  yet  you  may  see  them,  old,  gray-headed  fel- 
lows, thinking,  dreaming  of  but  this  one  thing,  and,  I  doubt 
not,  calculating  one  of  these  days  to  set  down  comfortably 
and  be  married.  'T  is  more  curious  than  any  thing  in  na- 
ture ;  —  I  beg  your  critical  pardon,  this  is  nature,  a  natural 
phenomenon  ;  I  meant  inanimate  nature. 

"  By  the  way,  talking  of  nature,  I  got  hold  of  Newton's 

Optics  on  the  passage  from  England,  and  find  Mr.  D a 

humbug ;  for  he  misrepresented  matters,  though  I  am  far 
from  believing  that  Optics,  or  rather  Light,  is  thoroughly  un- 
derstood. Electricity  I  have  been  pecking  at  a  little,  too.  It 
is  yet  a  mystery  to  me,  and  I  should  like  nothing  better  than 
a  good  chance  to  study  the  subject.  I  think  you  would  find 
the  mental  dyspepsia  with  which,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  are 
sometimes  troubled,  relieved  by  a  change  of  diet.  Meta- 


YOUTH.  53 

physics,  and  such  like,  taken  alone,  are  too  windy ;  you 
want  a  little  solid  food.  Let  me  recommend  those  matters 
in  natural  philosophy  which  will  allow  speculation  enough, 

and  yet  give  something  tangible  to  rest  on 

"  I  am  pouring  forth  an  extensive  poem  on  the  Deluge  ! 
What  think  ye,  —  will  it  come  out  of  the  little  end?  I  have 
luxuriated  extensively  upon  Milton  and  Mother  Goose,  of  late. 
That  last-mentioned  author  gives  a  rich  opening  ;  if  I  had 
time  I  would  try  it,  for  many  excellent  satires  might  be 
preached  from  her  texts.  Childe  Harold,  too,  I  have  been 
reading  again,  and  think,  though  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  less 
and  less  of  Byron's  talents.  I  like  his  writings,  but  they  do 
not  seem  to  me  to  be  wrought  of  the  same  stuff  as  Shak- 
speare  and  Milton.  I  judge  he  will  be  rather  like  those  poets 
who  are  now  almost  forgotten,  though  they  were  in  their 
times  very  popular.  I  have  been  studying,  also,  Shelley's 
Queen  Mab.  The  man  was  a  real  poet,  though  a  poor  phi- 
losopher. He  asserts  himself  to  be  an  atheist ;  and  tries  to 
support  his  belief,  but  his  argument  is  weak.  Paine's  work 
is  much  more  sensible,  but  neither  he  nor  his  antagonists 
fight  fair ;  they  assert,  but  prove  not.  It  is  fortunate  that 
belief  is  not  what  some  would  make  it.  One  may  spend  a 
life  in  study,  and  not  be  satisfied.  And  now,  hoping  this 
will  make  "you  wiser  and  gooder,  I  am,  &c." 

June.  —  "  You  must  excuse  me  if  I  give  you  no  reason  for 
my  tides  and  currents  ;  they  are  incomprehensible  to  my- 
self. Just  now  I  am  as  calm  as  a  summer  evening,  or  a 
winter  morning,  or  a  spring  noon  ;  —  but  come  twenty-four 
hours  hence,  and  you  might  find  an  equinoctial.  We  talk 
a  great  deal  about  that  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  called 
Free  Will,  but  my  prime  minister  is  plaguy  apt,  when  it 
comes  to  the  point,  to  be  left  in  the  minority.  I  would,  and 
I  would  not.  Now  the  '  would  not '  evidently  is  not  the 
'would';  and  Will  and  Do  must  go  together.  /  lay  the 
5* 


54  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

matter  before  myself ;  I  take  one  side,  and  se //",  who  goner- 
ally  manages  to  get  the  vote  of  my  body,  takes  the  other, 
and  leaves  me  in  the  lurch.  I  fight  it  out  stoutly,  but  i 
won't  do.  There  is  a  question  of  reform  to  come  up  before 
us  in  a  day  or  two,  but  I  can  already  foresee  the  issue. 
There  is  but  one  resource,  —  to  dissolve  the  meeting  and 
get  rid  of  that  rotten-borough  member,  the  body.  I  don't 
know  where  I  picked  up  my  character,  —  I  mean  the  one  I 
wear  at  present.  It  may  pass  with  you  and  the  world  for  a 
pretty  decent  one  ;  but  it  is  made  up  of  shreds  and  patches, 
and  every  now  and  then  a  thread  gives  way.  I  am  for  ever 
at  work,  sewing  and  stitching,  and  yet  can't  keep  it  whole. 
One  trait,  which  is  generally  thought  of  but  little  use,  has 
saved  me  from  the  rocks,  and  that  is  mauvaise  honle.  If 
I  have  lost  much,  I  have  gained  more  by  it  ;  without  it  I 
might  have  been  better  liked,  but  should  have  deserved  to 
be  more  hated. 

"  Shelley  denies  free  will.  He  says  the  strongest  mo- 
tive must  decide  a  man,  and  that  the  advocate  for  free  will 
would  have  you  believe  a  man  can  resist  and  act  against  the 
strongest  motive,  which  is  evidently  a  contradiction  in 
terms.  This  seems,  at  first  view,  plausible.  The  mind 
is  a  balance  ;  in  the  one  scale  is,  we  will  say,  Passion,  in 
the  other  Duty  ;  whichever  is  the  heaviest  is  the  prevailing 
motive, —  the  Will,  —  and  determines  the  conduct.  Is  it  not 
the  case  ?  I  wish  to  do  so  and  so,  —  to  go  to  Ohio,  to  stay 
in  Castries.  Hark  !  I  hear  a  voice  I  know  ;  now  I  want  to 
go  out,  see  the  person,  and  speak  to  him,  —  that  weighs  ten 
pounds;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  've  no  cravat  on,  no  coat 
on,  and  they  weigh  eleven  pounds  ;  of  course  I  shall  not  go. 
*  Yet  I  can  go  if  I  will,"1  you  say.  No,  I  cannot  without  I 
add  another  pound  of  motive,  and  more  than  a  pound,  to  the 
first  scale,  no  matter  what  that  motive  is,  if  it  be  only  to 
prove  to  myself  that  I  can  go,  that  I  have  free  will  •  for  that 
is  a  motive,  and  has  weight.  Free  will  is  always  the  same, 


YOUTH.  55 

—  the  weight  on  the  long  arm  of  the  steelyard.  Push  it 
out  a  notch,  and  it  will  counterbalance  a  pound  ;  two  notches, 
two  pounds,  and  so  on  for  ever.  But  what  then  becomes  of 
moral  responsibility  ?  No  man  can  be  blamed  for  doing 
that  which  he  must  do.  A  person  commits  a  theft,  and  you 
condemn  him;  but  Shelley  says: — 'Wait;  there  were 
certain  motives  in  his  mind  for  and  against  the  act  ;  which- 
ever prevailed,  that  he  must  obey  ;  and  he  did  not  make 
those  motives."1  '  There  is  the  very  point,'  say  you  ; 
'  had  he  restrained  his  propensity  when  young !  '  '  What 
do  you  mean  ? '  asks  Shelley ;  '  he  had  motives,  on  either 
hand,  then  as  well  as  now."1  '  But,'  say  you  again,  and 
you  think  you  have  found  the  kernel  of  the  matter,  — '  but 
did  he  consider  those  motives  ?  did  he  weigh  them  ?  did 
he  not  give  way  to  the  first  which  came,  put  passion  into 
one  scale  and  nothing  in  the  other,  and  then  say  pas- 
sion was  the  heaviest  ? '  '  He  did  all  he  could,"1  answers 
Shelley  ;  '  if  he  was  hasty,  he  had  motives  for  being  so.' 
You  may  get  out  of  the  labyrinth  as  you  can.  And  yet 
Mr.  Shelley  and  his  school  can  blame  kings  and  priests  for 
enslaving  mankind  !  The  fact  is,  that  words  would  per- 
suade them  that  there  is  no  such  reality  as  Will,  but  the 
DEITY  within  assures  them  of  the  contrary." 

June.  —  "  The  only  thing  that  can  save is  to  get  mar- 
ried ;  to  give  up  trash,  employ  his  powers  to  some  purpose, 
study  algebra  and  geometry,  and  read  Coleridge's  Aids,  &c. ; 
thus  he  may  come  down  to  sense  and  poetry,  for  at  present 
he  is  in  a  balloon  of  fanciful  conceit.  He  tried  to  mount 
Pegasus,  but  found  .the  sky-steed  too  fiery.  When  I  was 
eighteen  years  of  age,  —  shall  I  confess  it  ?  — I  thought  of 

rivalling  B ,  and  P ,  and  W ,  &c.,  myself;  but 

three  years  have  made  me  wiser.  My  rhyming  talent  is  a 
faculty  of  great  worth  to  me,  and  I  am  thankful  to  possess 
it ;  but  I  shall  not  trouble  others  therewith.  We  want 
POETS  at  present,  not  versifiers. 


56  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  I  will  not  ask  you  to  forgive  my  dustiness,  my  selfish- 
ness, but  only  assure  you  that  this  is  my  very  last.  " 

James  returned  home  in  the  summer  of  1831  ;  and, 
as  soon  as  the  settlement  of  affairs  allowed,  informed  his 
friends  of  his  resolve  to  abandon  for  ever  the  mercantile 
profession.  After  full  consideration  of  his  prospects 
and  aims,  he  determined  to  try  his  fortune,  and  in  some 
way  test  his  powers,  in  the  great  valley  of  the  West. 
Thither  we  will  now  follow  him,  and  see  how  the  char- 
acter formed  in  Youth  developed  itself  in  Manhood. 

The  views  which  guided  him  in  emigrating  to  Ohio 
are  explained  in  a  letter  addressed  to  his  former  teacher, 
Timothy  Walker,  Esq. 

"  Boston,  December  5//t,  1831.  Sir, —  I  have  for  some 
time  been  thinking  of  going  to  the  Westward  in  search  of 
employment,  for  that  which  I  have  here  is  too  sedentary  for 
my  taste  or  health ;  but  as  I  knew  no  one  who  could  give 
me  any  information  respecting  the  proper  mode  of  starting 
in  your  part  of  the  world,  I  have  put  off  the  coming  to  the 
point  from  time  to  time,  for  the  last  twelve  months. 

"  I  now  take  the  liberty  of  writing  to  you,  hoping  that, 
without  inconvenience  to  yourself,  you  may  be  able  to  give 
me  the  information  I  want ;  which  is,  simply,  whether,  if  I 
should  reach  Cincinnati  in  mid-winter,  say  January,  I  could 
probably  find  immediate  employment  in  some  active,  out- 
door business,  with  a  compensation  sufficient  to  give  me  a 
support  until  I  could  form  some  permanent  arrangement. 
For  this  purpose  it  must  be  a  place  which  I  can  leave  at 
any  time,  with  a  short  notice.  My  intention  is  to  purchase 
land  somewhere  in  Ohio,  and  undertake  the  care  of  an  es- 
tate ;  but  I  wish  to  get  some  employment  which  will  give 
me  a  bare  sustenance,  while  I  am  gaining  some  insight  into 


YOUTH.  57 

the  matter  of  farming,  of  which  at  present  I  know  nothing, 
being  one  of  that  amphibious  species,  half  merchant,  half 
scholar,  with  a  strong  inclination  to  become  either  a  cob- 
bler or  a  blacksmith. 

"  I  should  suppose  that,  in  a  State  like  yours,  a  person 
possessing  some  knowledge  of  the  business,  and  willing  to 
work,  might,  by  taking  a  small  farm  upon  some  of  the  riv- 
ers which  empty  into  the  Ohio,  and  attending  to  the  raising 
of  grain,  cattle,  getting  down  lumber,  &c.,  lead  a  quiet  life 
and  make  some  money.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  in- 
form me,  if  without  inconvenience  you  can,  what  the  value 
of  cleared  land  of  good  quality  upon  the  rivers  may  be  per 
acre  ;  and  what  is  the  probable  cost  of  getting  such  a  farm 
as  a  new  settler  would  want  into  operation  ?  However,  I 
would  not  trouble  you  with  any  but  the  simple  question, 
whether  I  can  get  occupation  at  once,  or  soon  after  arrival, 
in  some  active  business,  which  I  should  prefer,  or  even  in 
an  in-door  employment ;  and,  by  the  way,  perhaps  the 
country  would  be  better  than  the  town  to  serve  my  appren- 
ticeship in.  I  am  ready  to  try  any  thing  almost,  which  will 
leave  me  free  to  quit  when  I  please. 

"I  beg  you  will  not  give  yourself  the  least  trouble,  nor 
spend  any  of  your  time  to  answer  me,  unless  you  can  well 
afford  it ;  and  hoping  before  long  to  see  your  city  and  self, 
I  remain,  your  obedient  servant,  &c. 

"JAMES  H.  PERKINS." 


II. 

M  A  X  II  001). 
1832-1849. 

IT  was  in  February,  1832,  thru  Mr.  Perkins  reached 
Cincinnati,  intending  to  remain  but  a  week  or  two,  till 
the  ground  was  sufficiently  cleared  from  snow  and  set- 
tled, for  him  to  look  about  and  choose  a  farm.  Mean- 
while, he  was  asked  to  pass  his  leisure  hours  at  the 
ofiice  of  his  friend,  Mr.  Walker,  who  had  then  just 
entered  upon  the  professional  career  which  has  since  so 
deservedly  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  Western 
jurisprudents.  It  was  a  matter  of  course,  with  his  habits 
of  vigorous  inquiry,  that  he  should  take  up  the  books 
around  him,  and  catch  such  glimpses  as  he  could  of  the 
science  of  the  law.  He  had  long  since  learned  to  husband 
his  time,  and  knew  well  that  all  information  comes 
sometimes  in  piny,  while  variety  of  discipline  best  ma- 
tures the  judgment.  So,  instead  of  idling,  gossiping,  or 
staring  at  novelties,  he  studied  ;  studied  so  diligently, 
indeed,  that,  unawares,  he  found  himself  becoming  pro- 
foundly interested  in  tracing  out  the  symmetrical  system 
of  justice,  which,  like  a  network  of  nerves,  pervades 
the  body  of  social  relations.  The  result  of  this  acci- 
dental application  was,  that,  drawn  in  part  by  the  exhil- 
arating pleasure  of  the  study,  and  in  part  by  the  counsels 
of  Mr.  Walker,  and  ^of  young  friends  whom  he  met  at  the 


MANHOOD.  59 

office,  who  all  admired  his  commanding  intellect,  he 
suddenly  resolved  to  devote  hims  If  to  the  law.  "  For 
a  week  past,"  he  wrote,  in  great  spirits,  "  I  have  been 
too  busy  to  do  any  thing  but  study,  fourteen  hours  per 
day  being  my  allowance  of  work,  for  I  am  not  joking,  I 
assure  you.  After  all  the  uncertainties  of  my  life,  I 
have  at  last  hit  upon  that  to  which  I  should  have 
been  trained  from  youth  upward,  if  I  could  have  had 
my  own  way.  But  in  knowledge,  I  fancy  I  am  about 
as  far  on  as  if  I  had  passed  through  college,  and  in 
wickedness  being  a  little  behindhand  is  no  harm.  So, 
Mr.  Professional,  here  's  at  you.  Having  taken  up 
study  in  earnest,  I  mean  to  stick  to  it."  And  again 
to  his  father  he  playfully  says:  —  "The  books  which 
you  have  had  the  kindness  to  send  have  not  arrived,  but 
they  will  be  amply  in  time  to  instruct  me  in  the  business 
of  horticulture,  as  I  see  small  prospect  of  becoming  a 
farmer  for  a  year  or  two  yet.  The  law,  that  came  in 
on  a  visit  merely,  may  remain  as  a  resident,  unless  some- 
thing new  turns  up.  The  more  I  study  it,  the  more  I 
like  it  ;  though  this  may  be  on  the  principle  that  a  horse 
goes  by  in  a  burning  stable,  when  he  runs  into  the  fire 
instead  of  out  of  the  door.  In  Cincinnati,  the  number 
of  lawyers  is  large  ;  but  in  the  country  there  is  a  wide 
field  to  do  justice  —  that  is,  to  practise  abominations  — 
in.  Titles,  to  be  sure,  are  clear  hereabouts,  men  peace- 
able, and  laws  mild  ;  but  I  flatter  myself  that  I  can  pick 
up  information  enough  in  two  years  to  '  change  all  that,' 
sufficiently,  at  least,  to  serve  my  own  interests." 

Mr.  Perkins  was  yet  further  led  to  stay  in  Cincinnati 
by  the  charms  of  the  social  circle  to  which  he  was  at 
once  introduced,  and  where  he  found  himself  welcomed 
with  a  cordial  truthfulness,  that  opened  his  heart,  and  set 


60  LIFE    OF  JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

free  his  long  prisoned  affections.  In  place  of  fashiona- 
ble coldness,  aristocratic  hauteur,  purse-pride,  ostenta- 
tion, reserve,  non-committalisin,  the  tyranny  of  cliques, 
and  the  fear  of  leaders,  he  found  himself  moving  among 
a  pleasant  company  of  hospitable,  easy,  confiding,  plain- 
spoken,  cheerful  friends,  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the 
Union,  and  loosed  at  once  by  choice  and  promiscuous 
intercourse  from  trammels  of  bigotry  and  conventional 
prejudice.  He  breathed  for  once  freely,  and  felt  with 
joy  the  blood  flowing  quick  and  warm  throughout  his 
spiritual  frame.  He  caught,  too,  the  buoyant  hopeful- 
ness that  animates  a  young,  vigorous,  and  growing  com- 
munity, and  mingled  delightedly  with  groups  of  high- 
hearted, enterprising  men,  just  entering  on  new  careers, 
and  impelled  by  the  hope  of  generous  service  in  literary, 
professional,  or  commercial  life.  Above  all,  happiest 
good-fortune  brought  him  at  once  under  the  influence  of 
woman,  — as  he  had  so  long  in  the  ideal  dreamed  of  her, 
—  serenely  wise,  pure  as  lovely,  spreading  around  her  the 
verdure  and  bloom  of  goodness,  through  daily  charities  of 
home.  Extracts  from  his  letters  will  best  show  the  elas- 
ticity of  his  temper,  and  the  direction  of  his  thoughts. 

May  6th.  —  "  Being  confined  the  greater  part  of  the  time 
to  an  office,  carrying  on  a  war  against  reports  and  text- 
books, and  busied  in  gathering  together  my  spoils,  I  can  have 
but  litlle  to  tell  you  as  to  the  world  without;  though  once  in 
a  while,  to  be  sure,  when  I  feel  very  anti-sublunary,  I  take  a 
turn  of  ten  or  twelve  miles  in  the  country,  and  fancy  my- 
self in  the  garden  of  Eden,  —  the  only  thing  in  the  way 
of  completing  this  idea  being  the  prevalence  of  rail-fences. 
To  a  person  who  has  been  all  his  life  in  New  England, 
where  a  man  ploughs,  not  his  land,  but  his  rocks,  and  where 
the  great  secret  of  agriculture,  if  1  mistake  not,  is,  by  dint 


MANHOOD.  61 

of  ploughing,  harrowing,  hoeing,  raking,  and  hard  swearing, 
so  to  arrange  the  stones  that  the  sun,  the  rain,  and  the  wa- 
terpot  may  be  able  to  coax  up  one  blade  of  corn  between 
three   pebbles,  —  to  a  person  '  raised  '  in  that  pudding-stone 
part  of  the  republic,  this  country  seems  miraculous.     For 
here  a  man  runs  his  coulter  along  a  hill-top,  and  turns  up  a 
soil  as  black  as  plum-cake,  and  without  a  stone  in  it  half  as 
big  as  those  I  used  to  eat  in  your  dyspepsia  plum-cake,  — 
which  was  made,  I  apprehend,  upon  the  principle,  that  men, 
like  chickens,  have  gizzards  ;  indeed,  this  soil  is  more  like 
wedding-cake,  for,  like  wedding-cake,  it  is  too  rich  to  be 
wholesome.     You  speak  to  me  of  selecting  a  place  where 
'  water  will  be  at  hand.'     But  water,  unless  it  be  the  rain 
from  heaven,  is  never  put  on  the  ground  here,  notwithstand- 
ing the   plants  which  in   Pennsylvania  and  Virginia    grow 
only  in  the  rich  bottoms  flourish  here  upon  the  ridges.     In- 
deed, if  one  can  but  make  a  long  leg  with  his  imagination, 
and  step  into  the  year.  2032,  hs  sees  here  a  true  paradise  ; 
for  there  is  not  a  foot  of  land  that  I  know  of  back  from  the 
river    hill, —  one   side   of  which,  next  the   river,  is   some- 
times precipitous,  —  that  is  not  as  well  worthy  of  cultiva- 
tion as  any  square  inch  in  your  garden.*    The  woods,  which 
cover  much  of  the  country  even  in  this  immediate  vicinity, 
are  not,   as   with  you,  haunted   by  a  confederacy   of  dry 
branches,  leaves,  stumps,  and  underbrush  ;    but  we  have  a 
forest  composed   of  immense   trees  running  up  twenty  or 
thirty  feet  before  they  branch,  and  walk  under  them  upon 

grass  as  smooth  and  soft  as  if  Aunt had  had  the  rolling 

of  it,  —  with  not  a  leaf,  dry  leaf  I  mean,  to  be  discerned, 
which  I  can  but  assert  and  not  explain,  —  and  troubled  by 
nothing  in  the  way  of  undergrowth,  unless  the  great  elm 
on  Boston  Common  might  pass  for  a  weed  or  sucker. 

"  But  the  mineral  immensity  of  the  country  is  as  unique  as 
its  agricultural ;  for  iron,  coal,  salt,  lead,  lime,  are  the  substra- 

*  This  letter  is  addressed  to  his  father. 
VOL.    I.  6 


62  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

turn  of  the  whole  valley.  We  have  no  great  barren,  conglom- 
erated hills  here,  no  granite  peaks  to  lead  to  speculation, 
railroading,  and  bad  business,  —  and  no  need  of  them,  for  we 
have  no  ocean  to  beat  our  wharves  out  of  all  proper  shape, 
and  no  men-of-war  sighing  for  dry  docks  ;  and  as  to  build- 
ing, the  limestone  of  this  country  is  as  much  superior  in 
point  of  workability  and  beauty  to  granite,  and  in  point  of 
beauty,  neatness,  and  democratic  elegance  to  marble,  as  one 
can  well  imagine.  As  to  coal  and  iron,  they  are  the  nerve 
and  muscle  of  this  country,  for,  had  the  steam-engine  never 
been  invented,  Cincinnati  might  have  contained  3,000,  but 
could  not  have  gathered  together  30,000  inhabitants.  In 
this  inland  country,  —  as  there  is  no  wind  unless  in  stormy 
weather,  —  you  may  go,  of  a  fine,  clear  day,  upon  the  highest 
hill  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  it  is  as  still  as  if  the  air  were 
spellbound,  and  you  hear  with  equal  distinctness  the  lowing 
of  the  cattle  in  the  valleys  back  from  the  Ohio  toward  the 
north,  the  song  of  the  boatman  floating  along  a  mile  an  hour 
on  his  immense  flat,  and  the  baying  of  the  hounds  in  the 
woods  of  Kentucky  that  stretch  far  away  to  the  south.  But 
presently  far-off  sounds  '  PufF!  puff!  puff!'  and  round  a 
point  comes  in  sight  a  little  fiery-nosed  fellow,  —  the  boats 
here  all  have  their  furnace  open  forward,  and  horizontal 
engines,  —  puffing  along,  and  leaving  behind  a  long,  irregu- 
lar wake,  which  makes  you  think  of  a  Dutchman,  with  a 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  running  away  from  the  sea-serpent.  On  he 
comes  faster  and  faster,  turns  another  point  in  the  serpentine 
highway,  and  disappears ;  —  all  done  so  quickly,  that  one 
might  think  it  a  mistake  but  for  the  continuance  of  the  high- 
pressure  '  Puff!  puff!  puff!  '  that  you  may  hear  ten  miles 
away  almost.  Then  as  to  factories,  the  country  is  so  level 
that  water-power  is  hardly  used ;  steam  does  all.  You  walk 
through  town,  and  every  building  that  is  not  a  dwelling- 
house,  a  warehouse,  or  shop,  is  a  steam-mill  of  one  sort  or 
another.  Do  you  want  a  block  of  wood  sawed  into  any 


MANHOOD.  63 

shape  or  size,  you  go,  not  to  a  carpenter,  who  would  by 
hand-work  cut  it  up  in  an  hour  or  two,  but  to  a  little  black, 
rickety  shed,  that  shakes  and  shivers  as  though  it  had  the 
ague,  and  within  which,  by  the  aid  of  a  steam-engine  that 
might  work  without  inconvenience  in  an  old-fashioned  waist- 
coat pocket,  and  a  little  circular  saw,  in  five  minutes  you 
have  any  thing  you  wish.  I  have  not  as  yet,  to  be  sure, 
discovered  them,  but  have  no  doubt  that  there  are  engines 
here  expressly  for  the  purpose  of  cutting  out  and  finishing 
toothpicks. 

"  But  perhaps  nothing  is  more  characteristic  than  the  rapid- 
ity of  building.  I  was  first  struck  with  it  soon  after  I  came. 
A  block  of  four  or  five  houses  was  burnt  down,  and,  though  it 
was  mid-winter,  the  masons  actually  laid  the  foundation,  and 
began  to  build  at  one  end,  before  the  fire  was  wholly  out 
at  the  other.  Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  be  asked,  or 
to  have  occasion  to  ask,  '  Why,  where  did  that  house  come 
from  ?  '  But  you  can  neither  get  nor  give  any  more  satis- 
factory answer  than,  perhaps,  '  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,  I 
found  it  there  yesterday  morning.'  One  of  my  fellow-stu- 
dents soon  after  his  arrival  was  taken  sick  and  confined  to  his 
bed,  his  only  amusement  being  to  watch,  as  he  lay,  the  steam- 
boats going  up  and  down  the  river.  One  morning  he  woke, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  thought  it  very  dark,  looked  at  his  watch, 
and,  finding  it  nine  o'clock,  rubbed  his  eyes  again  and  turned 
to  the  window.  Behold  !  a  brick  wall  within  three  feet  of 
the  glass.  In  doubt  and  wonder,  he  rang  the  bell ;  and, 
when  the  landlady  came  up,  asked  whether  he  was  awake, 
and  if  so,  where  that  wall  came  from.  '  O  la  !  Sir,'  said  the 
old  lady,  '  it  's  only  the  Squire  built  up  his  house  agin  this 
morning,  what  he  tore  down  last  week  ;  if  this  spiles  y'r 
prospect,  we  shall  put  up  a  new  wing  to-morrow  to  our  house, 
and  you  can  change  y'r  room,  Sir.'  Such  is  Ohio." 

"  I  have  been  reading  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister,  a  strange 


64  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

book,  which  I  cannot  pretend,  at  present,  to  understand, 
either  in  whole  or  in  part.  Without  assuming  to  judge  of 
German  manners,  however,  as  no  American  could  do,  I 
must  yet  think  the  change  that  goes  on  in  Wilhelm's  char- 
acter unnatural.  I  have  looked  through  Moore's  Epicu- 
rean, too,  and  have  been  much  disappointed.  Is  not  Moore 
the  founder  of  the  school  in  poetry  which  merges  all  logic  in 

sentiment  ?     One  of  these  days,  Mr. ,  when  I  have  '  got 

my  edication,'  look  out  for  a  poem  which  shall  set  the  world 
in  the  true  track  again,  and  bring  it  back  from  sweet  sounds 
and  wordy  nonsense  to  Nature.  '  You  don't  believe  it ! ' 
No  !  Nor  would  you  have  believed  that  I  was  to  be  a  law- 
yer, two  months  ago.  You  may  live  all  your  life  in  a  house, 
my  dear  Sir,  and  go  through  and  through  it,  till  you  think 
you  know  every  corner,  crack,  and  cranny,  and  yet  at  last 
find  in  some  odd  hole  a  chest  of  pearls,  silver,  gold,  or 
brass  !  " 

"  Robert  Owen  is  holding  forth  here  on  Deism,  and  found 
a  stormy  audience.  I  was  conversing  with  a  young  friend 
about  it  afterwards,  who  asserted  that  '  no  Deist  could  be 
an  honest  man.'  This  I  '  traversed,'  as  we  say  in  law, 
and  my  defence  of  the  possibility  of  an  honest  Deist  has 
acquired  for  me,  I  find,  the  reputation  of  being  one.  So 
much  for  free  inquiry  ;  though  doubtless  this  bigotry  shows 
a  good  spirit  enough.  But  I  am  no  Deist.  The  character 
of  the  Christian  religion,  and  the  character  of  its  Founder, 
are  proof  enough  to  me  of  its  Divine  origin.  When  I  think  of 
the  age  and  nation  wherein  Jesus  is  said  to  have  appeared, 
and  of  the  ages  since  down  to  our  own  times,  I  cannot  con- 
ceive of  his  character  as  being  a  human  invention.  No 
one  even  now,  indeed,  can  comprehend  its  perfection.  It  is 
stamped  with  signs  of  a  supernatural  influence,  and  yet  has 
this  peculiarity  of  naturalness  in  it,  that  every  beholder  sees 
it  to  be  beautiful  from  his  own  point  of  view.  The  martyr 


MANHOOD.  65 

and  crusader  looked  up  to  the  strength  of  mind  in  Jesus, 
which  could  crush  fear,  and  despise  pain  or  scorn ;  the  Re- 
former and  Puritan  revered  his  holy  zeal  and  devout  aspira- 
tion ;  while  a  Fenelon  is  touched  by  his  purity,  meekness, 
love.  Few  persons,  perhaps,  will  be  convinced  by  such  a 
proof;  but  it  is  the  only  satisfactory  one  to  me." 

"  And  so  you  conjecture  that  I  have  some  itchings  of  Sa- 
tan, and  am  dreaming  of  stump  speeches,  elections,  and 
everlasting  notoriety  for  one  year,  do  you  ?  Well  !  you 
miss  the  mark  widely.  I  have  lost,  since  I  came  to  Cincin- 
nati, what  good  opinion  even  I  had  of  myself  before  ;  I 
have  seen  enough  of  the  jealousy,  envy,  and  ill-will  felt 
towards  every  one  who  outstrips  his  rivals,  no  matter  how 
insignificant  the  prize,  and  know  too  much  of  the  woes  of 
unsuccessful  strivings,  ever  to  wish  to  make  an  effort  for 
advancement  in  wealth,  power,  influence,  or  any  such  path 
as  men  generally  toil  in." 

"  It  makes  me  start  and  rub  my  eyes,  when  I  consider  my 
past  life  and  present  situation  ;  and  I  have  a  strange,  reckless 
feeling  as  to  the  future,  which  sometimes  tempts  me  from 
mere  curiosity  to  lift  the  veil.  In  my  own  case,  in  yours,  in 
every  one's,  we  seem  to  stand  by  and  see  our  course  shaped, 
our  fate  decided,  by  events,  in  the  fashioning  of  which  we 
have  no  more  hand  than  we  had  in  moulding  Mount  Ararat. 
It  is  the  conviction  of  this  fact,  which  prevents  me  from  feel- 
ing much  interest  in  my  outward  circumstances,  for  I  look  at 
my  own  career  as  I  would  on  that  of  some  character  in  a 
novel.  I  am  absorbed  in  the  thought  of  my  inward  progress  ; 
though  truly  this  is  not  wise,  for  while  the  mind  depends  so 
much  on  its  condition,  it  is  useless  to  hope  for  the  conse- 
quent without  bestowing  a  thought  on  its  precedents." 

"  I  have  lately  been  reading  much  of  Wordsworth,  again  ; 
6* 


66  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

and  admire  him  more  and  more  every  day,  not  as  a  poet 
only,  but  as  a  philosopher  and  moralist.  My  own  philoso- 
phy runs  at  present  in  the  same  channel.  I  have  been 
much  altered,  and  really  I  believe  for  the  better,  since  I 
came  to  this  place ;  my  old-fashioned  mumpishness,  dis- 
tance, and  silence  have  quite  passed  away,  and  I  am  posi- 
tively one  of  the  most  social  men  you  ever  met  with.  And 
not  only  has  the  without  skin  been  cast,  but  I  have  got  rid 
of  much  of  the  monstrous  heresy  of  inhumanity  that  smoth- 
ered within.  To  whose  influence  all  this  is  to  be  ascribed  I 
could  easily  tell  you.  The  fact  is,  there  is  a  set  here,  —  a 
circle  of  married  ladies,  —  which  I  believe  could  scarcely 
be  surpassed  in  any  city  for  intelligence,  and  what  is  better, 
for  excellence  ;  and  all  so  related  and  united,  that  scarce 
an  evening  passes  without  my  meeting  some  of  them,  or  all. 
When  you  add  a  fair  proportion  of  the  fairest,  sweetest,  dear- 
est girls  imaginable,  can  you  wonder  at  my  metamorphosis  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  remember  any  hint  thrown  out  by  me  to  entice 
you  into  the  most  undeserved  compliment,  —  if  it  were 
meant  for  one,  for  it  would  have  been  a  cutting  sarcasm, — 
which  ascribes  to  me  '  active  usefulness  and  genuine  con- 
scientiousness,' not  to  mention  the  '  dogged  determination' 
that  is,  in  truth,  an  attribute  of  mine.  I  fear  one  who 
peeped  into  our  epistles,  and  noted  the  unhesitating  way  in 
which  each  belabors  himself,  would  think  us  a  true  pair  of 
hypocrites ;  but  at  the  risk  of  being  so  thought  by  your- 
self, if  you  please,  I  will  say  that  my  most  deadly  fault  — 
in  as  far  as  I  know  myself — is,  utter  selfishness  in  little 
matters.  It  is  a  common  fault,  and  a  foul  one ;  a  mean 
and  degrading  one.  I  could,  I  think,  sacrifice  a  good  deal 
if  occasion  called  for  it ;  if  the  happiness  of  another  for 
whom  I  cared  were  at  stake,  fortune  and  all  its  concomi- 
tants, and  I  believe  life,  would  be,  as  Mr.  G says,  '  indif- 
ferent' to  me.  But  if  I  am  to  give  up  a  little  that  another 


MANHOOD.  67 

may  gain  a  little,  —  there  's  the  rub  ;  I  follow  the  vile  fash- 
ion and  prefer  number  one.  But  this  petty  weakness  is 
like  to  be  rooted  out  of  me,  and  by  the  force  of  that  irre- 
sistible monitor,  example.  That  same  person,  to  whom, 
as  I  think  I  have  told  you  before,  I  owe  more  than  I 
can  ever  pay  in  the  way  of  purification  and  cleansing,  Mrs. 

,  has  taught  me,  by  action,  not  precept,  to  deny  myself 

that  others  may  profit  thereby.  How  this  is  effected  I  need 
not  tell  you.  The  influence,  unseen,  though  deeply  felt, 
of  a  woman  whose  beauty  is  her  least  charm  is  too  well 
known  by  every  one  to  require  me  to  dwell  upon  it. 

"  Making  you,  then,  no  longer  my  father-confessor,  I  will 
beg  your  pardon  for  not  answering  your  letter  before.  My 
excuse,  as  usual,  must  be,  work  ;  and  yet,  by  some  strange 
power,  the  day  is  borne  away  from  me  before  I  have  well 
mastered  an  hour  of  it.  I  am  up  before  it  is  light  enough 
to  see  any  thing,  save  by  torch-light  ;  keep  at  it  all  the  day- 
long, till  ten,  P.  M.,  and  yet,  with  all  my  pains,  do  nothing, 
or  next  to  that.  I  have  been  acting  as  editor,  that  is,  writer, 
of  the  magazine  *  I  spoke  of,  which  costs  me  some  trouble  ; 
and  I  have  two  or  three  lyceum  lectures  on  the  stocks,  for  I 
am  becoming  somewhat  literary,  and  now  am  about  attempt- 
ing to  get  up  a  book  in  opposition  to  that  '  got-up  concern ' 
of  the  Glauber  Spa.  Judge  Hall,  Mr.  Flint,  Mrs.  Hentz, 
and  two  or  three  more  of  us  (!),  intend  to  storify  Kentucky 
and  Kentuck  manners.  And  this  reminds  me  of  your  desire 
to  know  something  of  these  parts. 

"  The  West  is  decidedly  Saxon  ;  do  you  comprehend  ? 
We  have  not  the  chivalry  of  the  Norman  ;  we  have  not  the 
fire  of  the  Southron  ;  you  do  not  find  here  the  Yankee 
shrewdness,  —  I  mean  among  the  true  Western  men,  —  nor 
the  hot-headedness  of  the  Carolinian.  The  Kentuckian  is 
big  and  naturally  sluggish,  but  if  roused,  almost  capable,  and 

*  The  Western  Monthly  Magazine. 


68  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

fully  daring  enough,  to  '  ride  a  streak  o'  lightning  through 
a  crab-apple  orchard.'  He  eats  largely,  and  is  fond  of 
whiskey.  He  will  not  rush  into  danger  where  no  need  is, 
nor  curb  his  temper  if  thwarted,  for  fear,  love,  or  money. 
Be  kind  to  the  Kentuckian,  and  he  is  rudely  polite,  carries 
you  home,  and  you  may  stay  with  him  six  months,  rent 
free,  if  you  will  give  him  a  good  story  and  flatter  him  a 
little,  —  for  he's  'mighty  vain.'  Cross  him,  and  he  will 
hesitate  at  nothing.  If  a  Kentuckian  insults  you,  offer  him 
fight  on  the  spot,  and  two  to  one  he  will  haul  off  and  make 
friends  ;  attempt  to  '  cut  dirt,'  and  he  will  set  on  you  like 
a  wildcat.  He  has,  in  short,  most  of  the  virtues,  and  too 
many  of  the  vices,  of  the  old  Northman. 

"  The  country,  as  I  have  said  time  and  again,  is  beautiful ; 
near  Lexington,  one  might  almost  think  himself  in  England. 
I  spent  a  week  or  ten  days  with  a  gentleman  who  lives 
about  forty  miles  east  of  Lexington.  We  went  down  —  T. 

H and  myself — to  the  county-town  in  the  stage.     Our 

host  residing  four  miles  off,  we  held  a  consultation  as  to  the 
best  way  of  getting  out  to  his  farm,  and  inquired  if  a 
wagon  could  be  had.  There  was  not  one  in  town,  and  it 
was  a  good-sized  town,  too, —  brick  houses,  shops,  and  tav- 
erns. Meeting-houses  are  scarce  in  these  parts,  though  a 
congregation  met  somewhere.  '  Well,  if  no  wagon,  could 
we  have  a  chaise  ?  '  '  Not  a  chaise  within  twenty  miles.' 
'  Was  there  any  wheeled  carriage  of  any  description  to  be 
had  ?  '  '  There  was  one  gig  down  the  street,  but  it  was 
oldish-like  and  "  powerful  weak."  There  was  no  alterna- 
tive, and  so  T set  off  after  the  gig,  while  I  shaved,  in 

the  midst  of  a  political  discussing  club  by  the  fireside, —  for 
it  was  a  day  or  two  only  before  the  election.  In  a  little 
while  my  compagnon  de  voyage  returned  with  the  news  that 
he  had  accomplished  the  gig,  and  thought  it  safe  for  four 
miles, —  riding  and  lying.  So  we  went  to  work  to  prepare 
our  trunks.  Ere  long,  a  boy  stepped  in  to  say  he  had 


MANHOOD.  69 

tied  up  the  shaft,  nailed  on  the  whiffletree,  and  the  gig 
was  ready.  '  Bring  out  the  trunk,'  said  I.  The  landlord 
seized  the  trunk,  and  we  rushed  to  the  door.  There  stood 
the  invalid  machine,  but  horseless.  I  looked  round  at  the 
boy.  '  Where  shall  I  find  your  horse  ?  '  said  he.  '  Have 
not  you  a  horse  ?  '  '  No,  I  reckoned  you  had  the  horse.' 
'  Is  there  a  horse  to  be  hired  in  town  ? '  'I  reckon  not.' 
1  Then  we  must  walk.'  And  so  we  did  walk,  —  it  was  a 
warm  day,  —  sweating  it  out  to  the  Judge's. 

"  He  lives  in  a  brick  house  of  most  antique  cast,  —  you 
might  think  it  a  second-rate  chateau  of  France  rather  than 
the  domicile  of  a  new  country, —  some  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  road  ;  the  main  building  being  flanked  and  kept  in 
countenance  by  a  dozen  little  log-cabins,  barns,  corn-houses, 

wood-houses,  ice-houses,  &c.     Mrs. ,  the  wife,  with  the 

aid  of  two  very  pretty  and  well-educated  daughters,  keeps 
school  for  the  farmers'  girls  of  all  the  country  round.  They 
were  kind  beyond  measure,  would  not  allow  me,  though  I 
came  out  only  to  dine,  to  go  back  that  night,  nor  the  next  day, 
nor  for  a  week ;  and  then  I  got  away  with  difficulty,  and  was 
obligated  to  promise  a  return  for  two  months*  residence  in  the 
spring.  At  the  time  of  our  arrival,  the  Judge  was  absent, 
riding  his  circuit,  which  is  over  some  three  or  four  or  a 
dozen  counties,  in  the  most  barbarous  part  of  the  State.  He 
reached  home  two  or  three  days  after  our  arrival,  having 
ridden  for  two  days  in  a  tremendous  rain.  Though  born  a 
Yankee,  he  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  better  Kentuckian  ; 
very  large  and  strong,  rough  and  fearless,  with  a  good  deal 
of  quaint  humor  and  fun,  and  at  the  same  time  a  rigid  Pres- 
byterian. He  was  a  Clay  man  to  the  sole  of  his  boot,  and 
prayed,  with  his  family  assembled  about  him  at  evening, 
that  '  we  might  be  pardoned  the  sins  and  abominations  com- 
mitted by  our  Federal  head.'  He  spends  much  of  his  year 
on  horseback,  riding  from  log  court-house  to  no  court-house 
at  all,  putting  up  a  temporary  judgment-seat,  at  such  times, 


70  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

composed  of  an  old  stump,  with  a  rail  for  the  bar,  and  a 
little  cover  of  boughs  for  a  roof,  —  the  culprit,  if  it  be  a 
heinous  offence,  being  chained  by  the  leg  to  a  tree  with  an 
ox-chain.  The  style  of  living  in  the  Judge's  family  was  a 
specimen  of  Western  plenty,  though  he  is  a  poor  man,  hav- 
ing been  swindled  by  a  Yankee  friend  out  of  some  $40,000, 
the  product  of  much  labor.  His  house  is  open  to  any  ;  the 
family  numbers  fourteen,  and  there  are  in  general  two  or 
three  guests.  The  table,  as  in  olden  times,  almost  groans 
with  the  various  breads,  and  cakes,  and  condiments,  a  favor- 
ite dish,  of  which  I  became  very  fond,  being  a  piece  of 
honeycomb  as  large  as  your  hand,  eaten,  as  you  eat  a  roast 
apple,  in  a  bowl  of  milk.  Milk  is  the  Kentuckian  beverage 
at  all  times,  at  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  ;  you  take  a 
glass  when  you  get  up,  and  a  glass  before  you  go  to  bed." 

"  Having  eaten,  my  dear  philosopher,  a  large  breakfast 
of  buckwheat-cakes,  and  walked  three  or  four  miles  on  top 
of  it,  I  am  in  prime  order  to  discuss  the  mystery  of  Free 
Will.  But  for  the  present  I  simply  remark,  that  I  entirely 
agree  with  you  in  the  opinion,  that  good  Doctor  Spurzheim 
has  done  but  very  little  to  elucidate  that  black-hole  of 
'  Necessity.' 

"  Bah  !  I  am  called  upon  to  pay  money,  —  Rent.  How  I 
abominate  these  dollars  and  cents  !  I  am  afraid,  I  stand  in 
awe,  of  them.  One  of  these  days  I  expect  to  run  mad  from 
mere  dread  of  money.  I  have  half  a  dozen  debtors  here, 
and  yet  cannot  get  a  cent  from  any  of  them.  I  cannot,  will 
not  dun,  and  they  cannot,  will  not  pay.  It  will  bring  me  to 
hard  work  yet,  this  anti-commercial  nicety  of  mine.  O  for 
a  farm  where  I  might  be  independent  of  all  these  Jews  and 
thieves  and  brokers  ! 

"  To  return  to  free  will,  for  money  is  the  antipode  of  free 
will.  1  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  Doctor  Spurzheim,  like 
some  other  wise  men,  has  more  wisdom  apparently  than 


MANHOOD.  71 

really.  I  should  not,  however,  say  wisdom,  but  novelty. — 
Here  I  am  stopped  again  with  the  information  that  your 
master  in  philosophy  is  dead.  It  must  be  a  loss  to  science 
that  will  not  soon  be  repaired  ;  for,  though  I  doubt  the  Doc- 
tor's originality  in  general  speculation,  I  do  not  doubt  his 
accuracy,  his  power,  or  his  philanthropy.  I  presume  he 
will  have  left  works  behind  him  to  be  published  ;  if  he  has, 
and  they  are  printed,  I  shall  get  them.  His  former  writ- 
ings are  scarce  known  in  this  country,  but  it  is  probable,  I 
should  suppose,  that,  since  he  has  been  among  us,  his  works 
may  be  translated  and  spread  abroad.  The  leading  doc- 
trines of  Phrenology  are  very  generally  believed,  and  some 
of  the  details  ;  but  it  is  so  entirely  a  science  of  experiment, 
that  many  years  must  necessarily  elapse  before  it  can  be- 
come settled  and  digested. 

"  But  to  go  back  again.  You  wrote  me  a  letter  a  while 
since,  from  which  I  should  suppose  that  you  think  it  wiser 
to  use  life  in  acting  well,  upon  the  faith  that  this  course  will 
lead  to  the  desired  point,  than  to  spend  your  days  in  at- 
tempting to  learn  why,  in  order  to  reach  this  point,  one  must 
go  such  a  long  way  about,  through  bogs  and  fens,  (fee.  I 
am  entirely  of  your  opinion  in  this  matter;  I  conceive  spec- 
ulation, and  all  of  that  family,  to  be  poor  company,  save  in 
as  far  as  they  help  to  form  a  rule  of  action,  or  serve  as 
mental  gymnastics ;  and  it  were  better  to  exercise  the  mind 
upon  what  would  at  the  same  time  improve  it,  and  add  to 
its  store.  We  often  find  in  one  man  two  distinct  characters, 
according  to  one  of  which  he  thinks  and  judges,  while  ac- 
cording to  the  other  he  acts.  I  in  private  see  and  admire 
the  beauty  of  amiability,  and  determine  to  be  amiable  as 
my  neighbours  are  ;  but  no  sooner  do  I  go  abroad  into 
society  to  act,  than  I  become  sour  and  ill-natured.  Now  it 
is  the  acting  character  according  to  which  we  judge  of  a 
man,  for  we  know  it  to  be  the  true  one  ;  the  other  is  only  a 
prophetic  shadow  of  what  he  might  be.  But  it  is  the  acting 


72  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

character  which  the  man  will  carry  hence,  and  the  object 
of  life  should  be  to  form  this  character  aright.  First,  by 
means  of  the  understanding,  study,  contemplation,  and 
thought,  the  model  character  is  to  be  designed,  and  next,  by 
the  enchantress,  Habit,  this  image  is  to  be  made  substance. 
One  after  another  of  the  ideal  virtues  that  we  see  in  our 
model  are  to  be  transmuted  rnto  deeds,  until  we  ARE  what 
to  ourselves  we  before  SEEMED;  until  every  grace  becomes 
spontaneous,  and  we  act,  not  from  principle,  but  impulse.  In 
woman  we  find  this  spontaneity  of  right  far  stronger  than 
in  man,  and  therefore  I  look  upon  woman  as  a  being  higher 
in  the  scale  of  existence.  Thus  respecting  speculation,  I 
regard  the  intellect,  learning,  reasoning,  theories,  as  all  sub- 
servient to  that  one  great  end,  the  formation  of  character.'1'1 

The  cheerful  gratitude,  hopefulness,  sympathy,  and 
aspirations  for  a  nobler  style  of  spiritual  life,  which  per- 
vade these  letters,  found  expression  in  the  following 
poem,  which  very  truthfully  he  named  "  The  Emi- 
grant's Lesson." 

"I  left  my  own  New  England  home, — 

A  home  with  kindness  running  o'er,  — 
Far  off  beyond  the  hills  to  roam, 
And  seek  a  stranger  shore. 

"  His  ice  cold  Winter  round  me  flung, 

And  dark  Ohio's  tide  did  roll ; 
But  colder,  darker  mists  there  hung 
O'er  my  desponding  soul. 

"  Yet  when  I  reached,  at  length,  the  strand 
Where  my  sad  pilgrimage  should  end, 
Behold  !  on  every  side  a  hand, 
On  every  side  a  friend. 


MANHOOD.  73 

"  If  I  had  left  true  hearts  behind, 

I  found  as  true,  and  franker,  here  ; 
As  loving,  and  as  simply  kind, 
As  kind,  and  as  sincere. 

"  And  shall  this  goodness  be  in  vain,  — 

No  deep  impression  leave  on  me  ? 
Or  rather  help  me  to  attain 
That  true  philanthropy, 

"  Which  loveth  not  alone  the  race, 

But  strives  the  godlike  power  to  reach, 
That  can  enfold  in  one  embrace, 
Not  only  ALL,  but  each  ? 

"  HE  loved  each  being  of  our  kind,  — 
He  that  made  .human  virtue  dim  ; 
And  we  —  but  O  how  far  behind  !  — 
May  follow  after  Him." 

But  not  at  once  could  the  fiends  who,  through  tem- 
perament, habit,  and  early  conditions,  had  found  lodg- 
ment in  his  soul,  be  exorcised.  Notwithstanding  outward 
encouragements  and  inward  triumphs,  he  had  still  to  fight 
a  hard  battle  with  his  foes.  In  one  letter  he  says,  —  "I 
find  it  a  truly  Herculean  task  to  cleanse  the  Augean  sta- 
bles of  my  despondency."  And  again,  — "  I  am  little 
wiser  or  better,  I  fear.  Dyspepsia  is  weaving  her  black 
mantle  and  getting  ready  her  ashes  for  me  to  do  penance 
in, — penance  for  folly  in  having  abandoned  the  plough 
for  the  pen.  I  wish  the  mists  which  envelop  my  brain 
would  roll  off  enough  to  let  me  look  a  little  way  into  the 
future,  or  else  that  the  brain  itself  would  give  up  its  tan- 

VOL.  i.  7 


74  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

trums,  and  work  straight  on  to  some  purpose.  My  intel- 
lect and  heart  seem  wonderfully  fond  of  the  '  great  kick 
and  little  go.'  I  am  at  it  for  ever,  and  have  no  difficulty 
in  killing  time  ;  but  after  all  I  am  just  there,  in  the  same 
old  ruts  and  mud-holes."  Once  more  :  —  "  In  situation 
there  is  nothing  left  me  to  desire  ;  yet  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
a  shingle  in  a  mill-pond,  unable  to  steer  itself,  the  sport 
of  winds  or  schoolboys,  and  floating  about  only  till  its  turn 
comes  to  go  over  the  dan)."  And  finally  :  —  "  There 
are  times  when  it  seems  to  me,  not  that  there  is  room 
for  doubt  of  God  or  destiny,  but  that  I  am  not  as  I 
should  be.  I  do  not  conceive  the  sun  to  be  darkened, 
but  my  own  sight  to  be  obscured.  Like  all  other  men, 
or  rather  children,  I  have  had  misfortunes  of  which 
neither  you  nor  any  created  being  knows  or  ever  will 
know.  It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  tell  them  ;  and 
yet  they  have  left  an  impression  that  death  alone  can 
efface.  And  sometimes,  when  the  remembrance  of  them 
comes  over  me,  I  feel  a  spiritual  nausea  within,  and 
would  fain  throw  up  all  memory  of  the  past.  At  such 
seasons  I  am  indigo  to  the  backbone.  But  these  turns 
come  less  and  less  often.  I  mix  more  with  others  ;  act 
upon  my  fellows,  and  am  acted  upon  by  them  ;  and  now 
frequently  look  forward,  whereas  once  I  walked  crab- 
like,  looking  only  at  the  path  I  had  passed  over.  I  may 
do  but  little  in  this  world,  —  I  mean  little  good,  —  but 
I  am  of  that  rare  sect  —  for  though  all  are  of  it  nomi- 
nally, the  true  followers  are  few  —  that  really  believes 
in  another  life,  in  a  thousand  other  lives." 

Thus  morally  yet  more  than  mentally  active,  rejoicing 
in  the  genial  influence  of  female  society,  and  longing  for 
home-happiness  far  more  than  for  public  success,  Mr. 
Perkins  was  brought  providentially  into  daily  intercourse 


MANHOOD.  75 

with  one  who,  by  her  sunny  temper,  sound  judgment,  and 
ready  good-will,  formed  the  very  complement  he  needed 
for  harmonious  growth.  This  gay  girl  in  manner,  yet 
wise-hearted  woman,  was  Sarah  H.  Elliott,  of  Guilford, 
Connecticut,  who  was  then  visiting  Cincinnati  for  a  few 
months,  and  residing  in  the  family  of  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Samuel  E.  Foote.  They  were  betrothed  in  the  spring 
of  1833  ;  and  from  his  correspondence  with  her  —  which 
has  been  intrusted  to  my  use  —  free  extracts  shall  be 
made,  as  the  only  adequate  mode  of  presenting  a  beau- 
tiful side  of  my  friend's  character.  Many  of  the  most 
interesting  passages  must  of  course  be  kept  sacred,  but 
I  may  be  allowed  here  to  say,  that  every  line  is  fragrant 
with  a  delicate  tenderness,  a  sincerity  and  gentle  wisdom, 
which  prove  how  true  was  the  relation  between  these 
lovers.  These  extracts  are  of  worth,  too,  as  sketching 
with  fidelity  his  experiences,  trials,  and  progress,  and 
thus  illustrating,  as  no  second  hand  could  do,  his  real  life. 
This  consideration,  indeed,  has  mainly  guided  me  in  the 
selection. 

May,  1833.  "  Hitherto,  Memory  has  been  my  com- 
forter rather  than  Hope.  On  this  side  the  grave  I  have  an- 
ticipated little  happiness,  and  have  taken  but  little  pains  to 
secure  it.  Death  has  appeared  to  me  rather  a  deliverance 
from  pain  than  an  exile  from  joys  ;  and  there  has  been  but 
one  sting  in  the  thought  of  dissolution,  —  the  knowledge  that 
I  should  leave  no  one  to  mourn  me  here,  and  could  look  for- 
ward to  no  meeting  with  one  that  loved  me  hereafter.  But 
all  this  is  done  away.  Now  I  do  hope  ;  I  strive  now  to  se- 
cure happiness  in  this  world  ;  life  and  health  have  become 
treasures  beyond  price  ;  and  if  I  am  ever  useful,  ever  do 
any  thing  as  a  member  of  society  that  will  entitle  me  to  the 
thanks  or  prayers  of  my  fellow-beings,  to  you,  my  gentle 
mistress,  to  you  will  it  be  owing." 


76  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

May,  1833.  "  Contrary  to  the  wishes  of  many,  and 
the  advice  of  all  my  friends,  I  came  out  here  upon  what  was 
considered  a  madcap  expedition,  to  seek  my  fortune  ;  and 
what  a  fortune  have  I  found  !  I  was  before  in  a  business 
that  I  hated,  by  coming  here  I  have  gone  into  one  which  I 
like,  and  in  which  I  believe  I  shall  succeed  ;  before,  I  was 
sour  and  disagreeable,  now  I  am  brighter  and  kinder,  though 
still  bad  enough ;  before,  I  hoped  not  for  love,  and  seemed 
'predestinated  in  my  own  opinion  never  to  be  loved,  now  I 
am  certain  of  the  love  of  one  of  the  best,  and  kindest,  and 
purest  of  friends.  Had  I  found  a  mine  of  gold  or  a  bed  of 
diamonds  I  might  still  have  been  poor,  but  I  have  found 
you." 

June,  1833.  "  And  you,  my  bird  of  summer,  —  for  your 
soul  was  surely  once  the  spirit  of  a  lark  or  some  other  care- 
less, or  rather  uncaring  songster,  —  you  are  not,  I  trust,  am- 
bitious, and  would  not  wish  to  have  your  husband  a  '  great 
man.'  Your  mind  must  be  above  such  things,  for  I  do 
think  ambition  a  weakness.  If,  however,  you  do  expect  to 
derive  any  degree  of  happiness  from  my  distinction,  I  fear 
you  will  be  disappointed.  I  w;is  once  as  ambitious  as  any, 
and  would  have  as  soon  died  to-morrow  as  lived  humble  and 
unknown  ;  but  this  mood  has  past,  and  each  day  I  live  I  re- 
joice that  it  has  past.  The  jealousies,  struggles,  and  petty 
manoeuvres  of  even  the  greatest  are  enough  to  sicken  a 
healthy  mind.  The  characters  of  note  with  whom  alone  I 
am  satisfied,  and  toward  whom  I  feel  as  I  should  wish  to 
have  others  feel  toward  me,  are  such  as  Washington  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott ;  for  in  them  the  heart  was  ever  stronger 
than  the  head,  and  therefore  the  whole  world  loves  them." 

June,  1833.  "  She  is,  I  fear,  too  wholly  intellectual  for 
me.  I  like  independence  of  thought  and  action  in  woman  ; 
I  should  wish  my  wife  to  know  u-Jiat  her  duties  are,  and  u-Jiy 


MANHOOD.  77 

they  are  duties ;  I  would  have  her  make  up  her  mind  on 
these  matters  from  her  own  reasonings  and  cogitations  rath- 
er than  take  her  opinions  from  rne.  But  I  would  wish  her 
also  to  be  affectionate  and  confiding,  —  as  deeply  and  en- 
tirely so  as  you  are,  —  and  should  care  far  more  about  her 
feeling  with  me  respecting  the  whole  course  of  life,  than 
her  thinking  with  me  respecting  literary  performances,  or 
any  merely  mental  matter." 

July,  1833.  "  When  I  think  of  the  course  things  have 
taken,  I  feel  more  than  ever  the  influence  of  an  ever-pres- 
ent Providence.  Had  I  loved  any  other  of  the  many 
women  whom  I  met  in  the  circle  in  which  I  found  you,  — 
had  I  been  engaged  to  them,  and  after  the  engagement  had 
my  eye-sight  failed,  as  it  has  done,  I  should  have  felt  it  al- 
most obligatory  on  me  to  break  an  engagement  which  never 
would  have  been  made  could  I  have  looked  into  the  future. 
But  with  you,  educated  as  you  have  been,  and  with  your 
natural  tastes,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  am  called  upon  for  your 
happiness  to  sacrifice  my  own.  I  believe  you  depend  less 
than  most  upon  external  circumstances,  and  will  live  pleas- 
antly even  out  of  general  society  and  under  all  the  incon- 
veniences of  a  country  life.  Destitute  as  I  now  am  of  the 
means  of  living  in  town,  my  situation  would  be  fearfully 
forlorn  did  I  not  look  forward  to  being  united  to  you.  I 
never  should  have  dared  to  ask  any  one  to  marry  me  with 
my  present  prospects,  and  my  life  would  have  been  that  of 
a  hermit,  perhaps  o/  a  misanthrope.  The  thought  of  these 
things,  the  sense  that  a  protecting  arm  has  been  over  me 
hitherto,  will  make  me  look  upon  the  future  without  dread. 
I  will  do  all  in  my  power,  and  for  the  rest  trust  implicitly 
to  Providence." 

October,  1833.     "  Mrs. inclines  to  wonder  that  I  am 

not  jealous  of  this  correspondence  of  yours  with  gentlemen 
7* 


78  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

in  town,  but  I  told  her  that  it  agreed  with  my  system  of  eth- 
ics on  such  matters,  and  that  for  me  to  object  to  your  writing 
to  whom  you  pleased  would  be  ridiculous.  A  secret  cor- 
respondence would  be  wrong  ;  but  where  all  is  open,  it  is 
an  insult  to  interfere.  On  these  points  I  differ  much  from 
the  majority  of  the  world 

"There  seems  to  be  too  much  probability  that  you  will 
learn  the  lesson  which  adversity  and  disappointment  teach. 

And  they  teach,  dear  S ,  a  lesson  very  difficult,  but 

most  essential  to  be  learnt,  which  is,  so  to  regulate  our  minds 
that  nothing  shall  induce  us  to  despair;  so  to  make  our  hap- 
piness depend  upon  ourselves,  that  no  outward  circumstances 
can  bring  us  down 

"  In  the  mean  time,  hope,  hope,  hope  !  Be  assured  that 
the  Being  who  made  us  never  made  us  for  grief,  and  if  we 
will  only  be  faithful  to  ourselves,  we  need  not  fear  that  woe 
will  come/' 

January,  1834.  "Could  I  have  foreseen  the  present 
state  of  my  affairs,  I  would  sooner  have  cut  off  my  right  hand 
than  have  asked  you,  or  any  woman  situated  as  you  were, 
to  marry  me.  But  what  is  done  I  cannot  undo  ;  —  I  have 
troubled  the  quiet  stream  of  your  life,  and  now  I  can  do  no 
more  than  suffer  it  to  run  clear  again.  Our  future  connec- 
tion I  place  entirely  at  your  disposal ;  and  the  only  piece  of 
advice  I  will  hazard  is,  that  you  follow  your  own  good  sense 
and  good  feelings,  and  the  advice  of  your  friends,  without 
any  regard  to  what  you  may  think  to  be  my  wishes  ;  for  my 
supremest  wish  is  to  know  that  you  are  happy.  Do  not 

think  from  what  I  say,  S ,  that  I  am  despondent.     Let 

what  will  come,  I  am  determined  to  be  contented.     My  only 
anxiety  is  to  have  you  so  too." 

January,  1834.     "  Nothing  has  more  surprised  me  of  late 
years  than  to  discover  in  what  esteem  I  was  held  by  many 


MANHOOD.  79 

whom  I  supposed  despised  me.  My  person,  my  manners, 
my  talents,  my  character,  were  rated  high  by  persons  whom 
I  fancied  laughed  at  them  all.  The  knowledge  of  this  has 
led  me  to  a  more  thorough  self-examination  ;  and  that  ex- 
amination has  taught  me  to  think  less  of  myself  in  all  these 
respects  than  ever.  I  find  my  talents  small,  my  knowledge 
superficial,  and  my  character  very,  very  defective.  But  I 

can  increase  my  stores  of  learning,  and  you,  my  dear  S , 

shall  have  the  pleasure  of  perfecting  to  some  extent  my  dis- 
positions." 

January,  1834.  "  I  shall  be  admitted  to  the  bar  in  May, 
and  continue  my  studies.  In  March,  then,  I  shall  take  my 
cot,  mattress,  clothes-press,  and  other  necessaries,  and  pro- 
ceed to  my  farm  ;  there  I  shall  at  once  go  to  work  planting 
and  preparing,  and,  while  I  am  at  it  in  the  fields,  shall  have 
the  carpenters  and  painters  busy  about  the  house.  As  I  live 
at  present  entirely  upon  my  own  resources,  that  is  to  say,  as 
I  take  care  of  myself  in  all  respects,  I  shall,  out  of  town,  want 
neither  servant  nor  cook.  I  shall  take  out  my  library,  and 
in  solitude  and  seriousness  gain  my  bread  by  the  sweat  of 
my  brow,  study  what  is  to  be  studied,  and  prepare  all 
things  for  your  reception.  I  shall  arrange  the  garden  for 
you,  plant  your  flowers,  and  prepare  the  dairy  for  your  su- 
perintendence. As  to  how  hard  we  need  work,  that  will  de- 
pend entirely  upon  our  own  choice.  For  myself,  I  shall 
labor  enough  to  earn  my  living,  and  for  you,  you  will  labor 
enough  to  prevent  ennui  and  idleness.  We  shall  be  much 
more  together  than  in  town.  I  can  teach  you  all  I  know 
already,  and  we  can,  together,  make  new  advances  in  knowl- 
edge. Between  the  garden,  the  dairy,  the  house,  music, 
visitors,  reading,  and  meditation,  I  trust  you  will  be  able  to 
pass  the  time  pleasantly.  Be  assured,  my  endeavour  shall 
be  to  make  you  happy  and  good 

"  I  am  now  living  upon  mere  bread  and  water,  but  would 


80  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

not  exchange  places  with  any  of  the  nobility  of  England, 
particularly  if  I  were  to  lose  you  by  the  bargain.  It  seems 
to  me  at  times  as  if  it  must  be  a  dream,  that  there  is  a 
being  whose  soul  is  filled  with  love  for  me,  and  to  whom 
these  words  which  I  am  writing  will  be  a  source  of  pure 
joy.  When  I  think  of  this,  —  that  I  am  already  wedded  in 
soul,  that  I  have  a  power  of  becoming  every  day  wiser  and 
better,  and  that  my  education  has  not  bound  me  about  with 
those  cords  of  error  and  prejudice  with  which  so  many  are 
entangled,  —  it  appears  to  me  that  I  could  be  happy  under 

any  circumstances 

"  I  intend,  so  far  as  I  can,  to  labor  six  hours  a  day  bod- 
ily, spend  six  in  study  and  writing,  devote  six  to  you  or 
society,  and  sleep  six.  I  think  I  can  make  some  money 
each  year  by  writing,  and  that  will  prevent  the  necessity  of 
hard  labor  on  my  part.  If  I  know  you,  some  daily  occupa- 
tion will  please  you,  and  you  shall  be  your  own  mistress 
entirely  as  regards  the  quantity.  I  have  so  few  wants  that 
it  will  cause  little  labor  to  any  one  to  supply  them." 

January,  1834.     "  As  I  consider   you  already  wedded  to 

me  in  spirit,  S ,  and  as  you  are  entitled  to  know  as  much 

of  me,  my  temper,  and  disposition  as  I  can  teach  you,  I  will 
give  you  an  extract  from  my  journal  of  yesterday,  for  it 
contains  an  account  of  one  of  those  moods  which  from  time 
to  time  try  my  courage  :  —  '1  argued  this  afternoon  a  cause 
in  the  moot  court  before  Judges  Wright,  King,  and  Walker. 
My  argument  was  a  poor  one,  and  satisfied  neither  myself 
nor  any  of  rny  hearers.  A  sense  of  this  troubled  me,  for, 
as  I  had  given  much  time  to  it,  a  failure  proved  my  poverty 
of  talent ;  and  though  the  belief  that  my  mind  is  not  what 
my  friends  and  myself  once  thought  it  makes  me  the  more 
ready  to  leave  the  law,  yet  a  feeling  of  mental  weakness  is 
never  pleasant,  and  it  rendered  me  fretful.  I  drank  tea  with 
Mrs.  F ,  and,  as  usual,  the  ease  and  comfort  amid  which 


MANHOOD.  81 

she  lives,  and  which  S might,  but  for  me,  still  live  in, 

made  the  want  and  the  work  to  which  I  shall  bring  her  seem 
doubly  hard  to  bear,  and  I  was  more  soured  than  before.  I 

then  went  to  Mrs. 's,  to  a  small  party  ;  but  the  sight  of 

Mr.  brought  money  matters  to  my  mind,  and  the  fu- 
ture appeared  darker  and  more  full  of  doubt  than  ever.  I 
could  not  join  in  the  mirth,  and  wished  to  leave,  but  Mrs. 

was  to  be  cared  for,  and  I  remained  two  hours.    I  then 

found  that was'  to  walk  home  with  her.     This  added 

new  acid  to  my  temper.  Without  thinking  that  she  was 
ignorant  of  the  cause  of  my  stay,  I  at  once  set  this  down  as 
a  proof  of  her  dislike  to  me,  and  jealousy  became  my  mas- 
ter. I  looked  upon  myself  as  disliked  by  some  for  my 
temper,  and  as  despised  by  others  for  my  weakness.  I  saw 
nothing  but  darkness  before  me,  and  when  I  looked  back  it 
was  to  know  that  I  had  taken  the  only  being  that  ever 
loved  me,  and  the  one  that  I  love  most  dearly,  from  a  position 
that  all  might  envy,  and  was  about  to  drag  her  to  a  fate  that 

any    would   shrink  from.      When came  home,  I   was 

crabbed  and  unkind ;  he  observed  it  and  was  silent.  This 
led  me  to  reflect  upon  my  state  of  mind,  and  the  causes  of 
it,  and  before  I  slept,  thank  God,  I  had  overcome  the  fiends 
that  troubled  me.'  Such,  my  dear  father-confessor,  is  a  faint 
picture  of  one  of  those  fits  of  despair  and  jealousy  which 
were  once  of  almost  daily  occurrence,  but  which  now  come 
seldom.  Such  is  a  faint  picture  of  the  temper  which  you, 

my  own  sweet  S ,  must  chasten  and  correct.     Now  you 

may  understand  why  I  say  that  you  will  be  my  teacher; 
you  do  not  yield  to  the  demons  that  trouble  me,  or  rather 
you  are  too  pure  for  them  to  approach." 

February,  1834.  "  The  remark  you  made  as  to  the  inad- 
equacy of  most  young  men  to  be  husbands  is  perfectly  true, 
quite  as  much  so  as  the  one  made  by  me,  to  which  it  was 
a  retort.  Few  of  us  consider,  when  we  arrive  near  to  years 


82  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

of  manhood,  what  it  is  that  is  needful  in  order  to  fill  well  our 
places  in  life.  We  are  educated  either  to  make  money  or 
to  attain  some  kind  of  distinction,  but  those  qualities  which 
are  most  important  in  domestic  life  are  little  cultivated,  and 
those  studies  which  would  fit  us  to  be  really  good  men  are 
but  little  pressed  upon  us.  We  live  on  for  some  years  in  a 
dreamy  state,  fall  in  love,  perhaps,  and  get  married,  but  with- 
out asking  soberly  and  rationally  whether  we  are  suited  to  her 
we  love,  or  she  to  us  ;  or  whether  we  are  fitted,  either  of  us,  to 
perform  our  several  duties.  In  short,  we  act  from  impulse,  and 
not  from  principle.  And  when  a  young  man,  before  address- 
ing a  lady,  considers  coolly  her  good  qualities  and  her  bad 
ones,  when  he  bases  his  attachment  upon  respect  and  esteem, 
instead  of  mere  whim  and  instinct,  he  is  by  many  condemned 
as  cold-hearted  and  calculating.  I  loved  you  in  a  certain 
sense  before  I  knew  enough  of  you  to  respect  you  ;  but  the 

love  I  now  feel  for  you,  S ,  and  that  which  led  me  to 

try  to  gain  your  affections,  was  the  result  of  much  thought, 
of  a  comparison  of  our  respective  tempers  and  dispositions, 
and  of  the  influence  we  should  have  upon  each  other,  and 
of  a  conviction  that  we  are  better  adapted  to  one  another 
than  are  most  who  enter  the  marriage  state,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  all  this,  some  of  my  young  friends,  I  know,  look 
upon  me  as  being  at  least  ultra-philosophic." 

February,  1834.  "  A  wedding  should  be  very  private,  and 

without  any  of  the  parade  which  has  distinguished 's. 

Fashionable  parade  and  solemnity  are  incompatible  ;  and 
solemnity  I  think  should  certainly  be  preserved.  Then,  the 
admission  of  the  whole  town  to  share  in  a  joy  most  em- 
phatically private  and  personal,  —  or  rather  to  eat  our  ice- 
creams and  chicken  salad, —  is  horrible;  a  few  picked 
friends,  and  an  evening  of  rational  enjoyment,  would  be 
more  proper  and  pleasant.  Again,  to  receive  visits  the  next 
day,  and  have  parties  given  through  the  succeeding  fort- 
night, is  to  my  mind  sacrilege." 


MANHOOD.  83 

February,  1834.  "During  the  past  week  I  made  my  debut 
as  public  debater.  I  succeeded  better  than  I  anticipated, 
and  in  time  may  be  able  to  make  a  speech  worth  listening 
to  ;  as  I  am  a  member  of  two  weekly  debating  clubs,  1  shall 
have  opportunity  enough.  One  of  them  is  called  the  Inqui- 
sition ;  it  is  composed  of  the  most  talented  men  in  town,  and 
at  present,  to  be  a  member  is  considered  no  small  honor.  I 
was  one  of  the  original  subscribers  and  founders,  or  other- 
wise never  might  have  been  in  it,  for,  knowing  the  rule  of 
the  society,  which  is  to  admit  those  only  who  possess  un- 
doubted talent,  and  knowing,  too,  my  own  deficiencies,  I 
should  never  have  dared  to  propose.  It  is  to  me  a  matter  of 
daily  surprise  and  sorrow,  to  find  myself  looked  upon  as 
possessing  powers  and  information  that  I  know  I  do  not  pos- 
sess. I  am  sorry  to  find  this  favorable  opinion  more  widely 
spread  than  I  had  supposed, —  sorry,  because,  when  much  is 
expected  of  a  young  man,  he  is  almost  certain  to  disappoint 
the  world.  However,.  I  will  dc  my  best." 

April,  1834.  K"jlt  is  a  very  difficult  thing  to  tell  whether 
one  is  liked'or  disliked,  —  considered  a  pleasant  or  a  disagree- 
able companion.  One  day,  after  having  heard  some  one,  who 
to  his  face  is  treated  as  well  as  I,  called  a  most  consummate 
bore  and  impertinent  varlet,  I  make  up  my  mind  to  visit 
people  no  more,  except  just  so  far  as  common  decency  re- 
quires. The  next  day,  I  come  to  the  conclusion,  that  such  a 
course  would  be  foolish  and  wrong  ;  I  meet  some  kind  soul, 
whose  cordial  manners  reassure  me,  and  in  I  go  again. 
Thus  I  am  alternately  thinking  myself  liked  and  disliked, 
shunned  and  courted  ;  and  am  unable  to  make  up  my  mind 
whether  the  good  people  I  visit  will  not  wish  me  in  Jericho. 
Your  rule  of  presuming  that  all  like  you  does  very  well  for 

you,  my  dear  S ,  for  it  is  evident  enough  all  do  like 

you  ;  I,  on  the  contrary,  know  that  almost  every  one  dislikes 
me  on  first  acquaintance,  and  that  with   many  the  dislike 


84  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

strengthens  with  time.  A  natural  consequence  is,  that  I 
suspect  all,  — all  but  you,  my  own  dear  girl,  —  you  I  can- 
not suspect.  Nor  would  I  distrust  any,  indeed,  whose  hearts 
were  opened  to  me,  for  it  is  not  jealousy  I  feel,  but  mere 
uncertainty,  and  an  uncertainty  resulting  from  the  best  of 
causes,  the  knowledge  that  I  do  not  deserve  love,  respect,  or 
esteem.  But  enough  of  this." 

May,  1834.  "  Your  happiness,  and  that  of  every  wom- 
an, is  much  more  dependent  upon  slight  matters  than  a  man's 
can  be  ;  and  consequently  in  the  little  pleasures  and  arrange- 
ments of  life  it  should  be  my  object  always  to  follow  your 
tastes  and  desires,  and  not  my  own,  and  in  doing  this  I  shall 
sacrifice  nothing,  so  do  not  fear  for  me.  But  we  have  now 
to  decide  upon  a  matter  of  real  importance  to  us  both  ;  let 
us  in  all  things  act  as  one,  and  that  we  may  do  so  I  must  be 
fully  acquainted  with  your  views.  You  will  think,  my  love, 
I  am  early  introducing  you  to  the  cares  and  troubles  of  life ; 

but  such,  S ,  is  the   destiny  of  mortals,  and  you  must 

forgive  me.  My  object  is  to  consult  your  happiness,  afld  do 
my  duty.  That  done,  I  shall  leave  the  result  to  God  without 
fear.  My  anxiety  now  arises  from  a  feeling  of  uncertainty 
as  to  what  my  duty  is.  I  have  myself  always  desired  to  live 
in  the  country,  but  my  friends  have  opposed  it,  as  they  will 
do  now.  While  it  was  merely  desire  on  my  part,  I  was  un- 
willing to  contend  with  them  ;  but  now  it  appears  that  it  may 
be  a  matter  of  necessity,  and  it  will  be  out  of  my  power  to 
respect  their  wishes.  To  me,  health,  which  I  shall  possess 
in  the  country  if  anywhere,  —  independence,  which  I  be- 
lieve any  one  in  health  may  possess  in  the  country,  —  and 
i\\Q  power  of  doing  good,  which  I  think  will  be  more  certain 
to  me  as  a  farmer  than  as  a  lawyer,  —  to  me  these  three 
things  are,  and  ever  have  been,  enough  to  recommend  the 
fields,  independent  of  the  pleasure  which  I  enjoy  in  nature." 


MANHOOD.  85 

June,  1834.  "  I  have  lately  been  conversing  somewhat 
warmly  with  a  friend  of  mine,  a  young  man  of  as  high, 
pure,  generous  sentiments  as  any  that  lives,  on  various 
important  matters,  such  as  love,  distinction,  genius,  &c. 
He  is  in  about  the  same  state  of  mind  that  I  was  in  three  or 
four  years  since,  but  to  which  I  am  now  the  antipodes. 
Love,  to  him,  is  not  an  attachment  based  upon  knowledge  and 
esteem  of  the  person  loved,  but  a  mysterious,  supernatural 
bond  of  union  between  the  two,  which  is  superior  to,  and 
uncontrolled  by,  the  sense  of  duty,  —  which  must  be  obeyed, 
cannot  be  regulated,  and  is  independent  of  principle, — 
in  short,  real  old-fashioned,  Byronic  passion.  Now,  I  have 
been  growing  more  and  more  prosaic  and  matter-of-fact 
every  day,  with  yet  quite  enough  of  romance,  however, 
though says  I  have  not  a  particle,  it  never  having  oc- 
curred to  him  that  a  person  may  possess  what  he  does  not 
show.  I  am  come  to  regard  the  world  as  an  arena  in  which 
I  have  to  do  two  things,. —  improve  others  and  improve  my- 
self.  I  look  upon  myself,  upon  you,  and  upon  all  of  us,  as 
capable  of  improvement,  infinitely.  '  He  that  is  faithful 
over  a  few  things  shall  be  ruler  over  many.'  I  am  not  will- 
ing to  seek  power  here,  simply  because  I  look  forward  to 
the  time  when  I  shall  have  worlds  at  my  command.  I  wish 
in  this  life  to  Jit  myself  for  that  command  ;  and  the  only 
way  of  doing  so  is  to  perfect  my  nature,  as  far  as  I  can. 
The  highest,  the  divinest  power  in  the  world,  is  that  of 
love,  for  by  it  God  governs." 

Mr.  Perkins  was  married  on  the  17th  of  December, 
1834.  He  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar  during  the  pre- 
vious spring,  and  was  at  this  time  engaged  in  the  double 
duty  of  professional  labors  and  editing.  His  prospects 
in  the  law  were  excellent.  Greatly  admired  by  the  pub- 
lic for  his  talent  as  a  speaker,  which  had  already  been 
variously  manifested  through  lectures  and  debates,  re- 

VOL.  i.  8 


86  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

spected  by  his  elders  and  legal  compeers  for  the  solidity 
of  his  attainments,  his  perspicuity  of  intellect,  and  his 
powers  of  argument,  and  closely  connected  with  influ- 
ential persons  in  society,  who,  though  advanced  in  age 
and  social  position,  made  of  this  brilliant  young  man  an 
intimate  companion  and  confidential  friend,  he  seemed 
sure  of  eminent  success.  "  For  two  years,"  says  Mr. 
Walker,  "  there  could  not  have  been  a  more  devoted 
student.  His  very  first  argument,  made  before  the  moot 
court  of  which  I  acted  as  judge,  on  a  question  of  com- 
mercial law,  has  left  such  an  impression  on  my  mind, 
that,  at  the  distance  of  nearly  seventeen  years,  I  remem- 
ber it  as  one  of  the  most  finished  and  lawyer-like  argu- 
ments I  have  ever  heard."  "  He  made  great  proficiency 
in  the  study  of  the  law,"  says  also  his  friend  T.  Howe, 
Esq.,  "  and  acquired  a  remarkably  clear,  strong,  and 
comprehensive  knowledge  of  the  great  principles  of  ju- 
risprudence, to  which,  as  a  science,  he  always  remained 
much  attached." 

"But  though,"  continues  Mr.  Howe,  "  he  was  suc- 
cessful as  a  beginner,  Mr.  Perkins  remained  but  a  short 
time  in  practice.  This  he  found  to  be,  in  the  last  degree, 
distasteful,  and  so  different  from  the  pure,  exhilarating, 
intellectual  excitement  of  the  study,  that  he  became  im- 
pressed with  such  disgust  as  never  afterwards,  I  think, 
to  do  full  justice  to  the  profession.  His  moral  standard, 
though  not  higher  than  all  should  have,  was  far  higher 
than  that  of  the  great  majority  of  his  professional  asso- 
ciates. They  laughed  at  many  of  his  views  as  absurd 
and  Quixotic.  Much  of  a  young  lawyer's  business  is 
necessarily  of  a  small,  pettifogging  sort,  where  no  great 
principle  is  involved,  and  where  the  feelings  and  habits 
from  the  magistrate  downwards  are  comparatively  low. 


MANHOOD.  87 

And  it  must  be  confessed,  loo,  that,  at  this  period,  the 
tone  and  character  of  the  Cincinnati  bar  were  nowise  en- 
couraging to  a  high-minded  man.  It  was  under  these 
circumstances  that  Mr.  Perkins  determined  to  quit  the 
profession."  "  Two  reasons  mainly  influenced  him," 
adds  Judge  Walker.  "  In  the  first  place,  a  sedentary 
life  was  prejudicial  to  his  health.  But  a  more  weighty 
reason  wTith  him  was,  that  he  could  not  conscientiously 
do  all  that  was  required  of  a  lawyer  in  order  to  secure 
success.  And  here  I  may  remark,  that,  of  all  men  w?ith 
whom  I  have  been  intimately  acquainted,  he  was  the 
most  scrupulously,  the  most  heroically  conscientious." 
His  views  are  thus  fully  stated  by  himself :  — 

"Dear  Sir,  —  In  reply  to  your  inquiry,  why  I  leave  my 
profession,  I  answer,  —  1st,  because  in  a  city  it  is  too  seden- 
tary and  adverse  to  firm  health  ;  2d,  because  the  drudgery 
of  it  is  injurious  to  the  intellect ;  3d,  because  the  devotion 
which  it  requires  is  greater  than  I  am  willing  to  give  to  any 
merely  worldly  concern,  which  either  does  not  affect  my 
higher  powers  or  impairs  them  ;  and  4th,  because  the  rules 
of  morality  by  which  lawyers  are  governed  do  not,  in  many 
points,  coincide  with  my  own  views,  and  I  am  not  indepen- 
dent enough  of  my  daily  labor  to  enable  me  to  oppose  the 
ways  of  the  profession.  Upon  this'  last  point  alone  shall  I 
say  any  thing. 

"  The  common  code  among  the  lawyers  with  whom  I 
have  talked  is  this,  —  that  they  are  not  called  on  to  refuse  to 
conduct  suits,  the  bringing  or  resisting  of  which  is  clearly 
wrong  on  the  part  of  their  client ;  and  that  their  business  is 
to  see  the  law  enforced,  and  not  to  attend  to  the  equitable 
operation  of  that  law  in  certain  cases.  For  instance,  one 
man  rents  a  house  of  another  for  a  month  ;  when  the  month 
is  up,  the  owner  wishes  to  let  it  to  some  one  else,  and  the 


88  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

tenant  wishes  to  retain  it,  though  he  has  no  shadow  of  right ; 
this  tenant  goes  to  a  lawyer  and  states  his  wish  ;  the  lawyer 
sees  that  he  has  no  claim,  but  he  appears  for  him  before  the 
justice,  and  the  justice  decides  against  the  tenant ;  his  pro- 
ceedings have,  in  some  point,  however,  been  informal ;  the 
lawyer  takes  advantage  of  this  want  of  form  to  remove  the 
case  to  a  higher  court,  where  it  may  remain  undecided  for 
one  or  two  years,  during  which  time  the  tenant  retains  pos- 
session. In  this  case,  the  lawyer,  instead  of  refusing  to 
assist  in  gaining  what  he  knows  to  be  an  unjust  claim,  uses 
the  law,  which  was  made  to  prevent  injustice,  to  work  injus- 
tice ;  he  sees  the  claim  to  be  wrong  in  the  claimant,  he 
knows  that,  should  he  assist  the  claimant  as  a  friend,  he 
would  be  equally  in  the  wrong,  but  as  a  lawyer  he  does 
right.  Now,  to  my  mind,  no  man  can  rightfully  do  as  a  law- 
yer what  is  wrong  in  him  as  a  man  ;  he  cannot  by  assum- 
ing a  profession  put  off  God's  moral  law  ;  and  as  to  his  duty 
being  to  see  the  law  fulfilled,  it  is  not  so  if  the  law  is  meant  to 
work  injustice  ;  nor  if,  from  man's  imperfection,  it  does  work 
injustice  in  particular  cases.  His  duty  is  to  see  the  purpose 
of  the  law,  and  not  its  letter,  fulfilled,  and  that  is  JUSTICE. 

"  It  is  said,  however,  that  the  law  must  be  literally  carried 
out,  or  it  becomes  uncertain,  and  the  consequent  public  in- 
jury more  than  outweighs  the  private  good.  This  principle 
should  make  the  judge  always  respect  the  law,  no  matter 
what  evil  results  from  its  application,  and  it  may  even  war- 
rant the  lawyer  in  taking  advantage  of  the  technicalities  in 
the  progress  of  a  just  suit,  because  to  neglect  them  may 
cause  looseness  of  practice  and  evil  ;  but  it  can  never  author- 
ize him  to  commence  an  unjust  suit,  or  to  bring  up  techni- 
calities that  they  may  be  violated. 

"  I  have  spoken  of  the  creed  above  referred  to  as  com- 
mon among  those  lawyers  whom  I  have  consulted.  Perhaps 
the  expression  is  too  broad,  for  I  do  not  know  that  most  of  the 
profession  hold  to  it  in  its  bare  form,  and  I  do  know  some  who 


MANHOOD.  89 

abhor  it ;  but  most  of  those  with  whom  I  have  talked  ap- 
proved it,  and  among  them  were  men  of  pure  character  and 
romantic  notions  of  honor.  To  me  the  doctrine  seems  op- 
posed to  all  sound  morality,  and  I  hope  there  are  those  com- 
ing forward  in  the  West  who  will  do  it  away.  While  men 
think  the  course  right  and  Christian,  I  bring  no  charge 
against  them;  we  are  all  too  self-deceiving  to  make  that 
safe,  for  though  their  error,  as  I  think  it,  may  result  from 
their  interest  and  non-examination,  and  so  be  criminal,  it  is 
equally  certain  that  it  may  not.  But  against  the  creed  that 
a  man  may  do  as  a  lawyer  what  would  be  wrong  as  a  friend 
and  fellow-man,  I  would  enter  my  protest  as  strongly  as 
against  any  criminal  and  immoral  doctrine  ;  nor  do  I  believe 
the  profession  will  ever  exert  the  influence  they  should,  until 
they  declare  this  doctrine  rank  heresy.  Their  duties,  their 
powers,  their  privileges,  are  in  themselves  noble  and  Chris- 
tian ;  but  they  are  as  yet  perverted  and  disgraced  by  too 
many,  and  that  without  reproof." 

Thus  freed  from  the  drudgery  and  temptations  of  the 
law,  Mr.  Perkins  devoted  himself  with  new  energy  to 
literature.  He  had  already  conducted  with  signal  ability 
the  Western  Monthly  Magazine,  and  was  now  engaged 
as  editor  of  the  Evening  Chronicle.  This  paper  he 
purchased  in  the  winter  of  1835,  and  united  it  with  the 
Cincinnati  Mirror,  which  was  then  published  by  William 
D.  Gallagher  and  Thomas  H.  Shreve,  when,  for  six 
months,  this  very  spirited  and  successful  weekly  was  ed- 
ited by  the  three  friends  conjointly.  From  Mr.  Shreve, 
whose  brilliant  wit  and  elegant  taste  have  for  many  years 
enlivened  the  Louisville  Gazette,  comes  the  following 
brief,  yet  truthful  sketch. 

"All  the  little  intimacy  I  enjoyed  with  Mr.  Perkins 
was  embraced  within  the  years  1834-  35  ;  and  the  rec- 


90  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

ollection  of  my  intercourse  with  him  during  that  period 
is  among  the  treasures  of  my  memory.  He  was  in  the 
habit  of  coming  into  the  office  early  in  the  morning,  and, 
without  any  preliminaries,  would  proceed  to  his  table 
and  write  as  if  he  had  just  stepped  out  a  moment  before. 
Tt  was  one  of  his  characteristics,  I  think,  to  do  what  he 
designed  doing  at  once,  for  he  was  a  true  economist  of 
time,  and  acted  while  persons  generally  would  be  getting 
ready  to  act. 

"  He  would  frequently  turn  round  and  ask  my  opinion 
of  some  subject  on  which  he  happened  to  be  writing.  A 
conversation,  perhaps  a  controversy,  would  ensue.  His 
object  was  not  so  much  to  ascertain  my  opinions,  as  to 
place  his  own  mind  in  a  condition  to  act  efficiently. 
When  our  talk  was  ended,  he  would  resume  his  writing, 
It  was  during  our  business  connection  that  I  was  first 
informed  of  the  unsoundness  of  his  health.  I  have  seen 
him  start  up  from  his  table,  hastily  throw  pen  and  paper 
aside,  strike  his  breast  with  his  fist,  complain  of  feeling 
unwell  there,  and  then,  drawing  his  hat  or  cap  down 
over  his  eyes,  walk  off  rapidly.  At  such  times  I  have 
known  him  to  walk  two  or  three  miles,  when  he  would 
return  and  resume  what  he  had  left  unfinished.  He 
would  also  complain  of  vertigo,  and  has  often  told  me 
that  he  had  eaten  no  breakfast. 

"  I  am  unable  to  give  you  any  anecdotes  or  illustrative 
reminiscences.  Had  you  assigned  me  the  pleasant  task 
of  recording  my  impressions  of  his  character,  then  I 
could  have  written  quite  as  much  as  you  would  willingly 
read.  You  know,  far  better  than  I,  that  his  devotion  to 
truth  was  a  leading  quality  of  his  nature.  His  renoun- 
cing the  practice  of  the  law  at  the  time  he  did,  for  the 
reason  that  he  could  not  practise  it  successfully  without 


MANHOOD.  91 

indulging  in  falsehood  and  deception,  I  have  always  re- 
garded as  highly  honorable  to  him.  How  few  are  like 
him  !  And  yet  at  that  time  he  made  no  professions  of 
religion.  He  convinced  himself  that  he  must  renounce 
either  his  honesty  or  his  profession,  and  did  not  hesitate. 
He  considered  it  his  duty  to  preserve  his  soul  from  the 
defilement  of  untruth ;  and  no  one  who  knew  him  ever 
supposed  that  he  could  be  induced  to  turn  his  back  on 
what  he  recognized  as  his  duty. 

"  I  remember  well  his  appearance  in  the  '  Inquisition.' 
His  speeches  in  that  society  were  always  truly  admira- 
ble. The  logic,  the  wit,  the  sunny  humor,  the  raillery, 
were  alike  irresistible.  The  same  wide  resources  of 
mind  that  he  subsequently  displayed  in  the  pulpit  were 
exhibited  in  the  Inquisition  debates,  and  we  all  felt  that 
when  we  had  him  as  an  opponent  we  had  much  to  fear. 
I  remember,  too,  his  lectures  on  '  Fishes  '  and  '  Insects  ' 
before  the  Mechanics'  Institute.  They  embodied  the 
most  graceful  and  witching  blending  together  of  humor 
and  science  I  ever  listened  to.  I  shall  never  forget  his 
account  of  the  ant-lion,  which  convulsed  every  one  pres- 
ent. Had  Mr.  Perkins  devoted  himself  to  humorous 
literature,  he  would  have  stood  at  the  head  of  American 
writers  in  that  line.  Indeed,  as  a  humorist,  original  and 
gentle,  he  could  scarcely  be  excelled.  But  so  well 
developed  were  all  the  faculties  of  his  mind,  that,  not- 
withstanding the  prominence  of  his  humor  when  com- 
pared with  the  humor  of  others,  it  only  balanced  his 
other  faculties." 

The  habit  of  mind  to  which  Mr.  Sh*eve  so  truly  re- 
fers, of  economizing  time,  and  always  doing  at  once  what 
was  to  be  done,  enabled  Mr.  Perkins,  amidst  the  hurry 
of  editorship,  to  be  a  most  rapidly  advancing  scholar. 


92  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

Steadily,  and  with  an  easy  exercise  of  thought,  which 
proved  how  exact  was  the  equilibrium  of  his  powers,  he 
daily  added  to  his  stores  of  varied  information.  He  was 
systematic,  almost  unconsciously,  and  kept  memory, 
observation,  imagination,  and  judgment  in  perpetually 
harmonious  activity.  His  rules  of  study,  in  so  far  as 
he  had  any,  were  thus  expressed  in  a  letter  to  a  joung 
friend. 

"  You  could  scarce  ask  me  a  harder  question,  than  the 
one  you  now  ask,  '  What  books  should  a  young  man  read 
between  the  ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty-four  ?  '  It  is  puz- 
zling to  answer  such  questions,  not  only  because  no  two 
persons  ought  to  go  through  the  same  course  of  reading, 
but  because  we  study,  not  to  heap  up  so  much  miscellane- 
ous knowledge,  but  to  learn  those  things  of  which  we  are 
peculiarly  ignorant,  and  to  cultivate  those  of  our  faculties 
which  most  require  it.  While,  therefore,  I  may  be  able  to 
advise  you  very  well,  knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  am  wholly 
unable  to  advise  your  brother  ;  and  as  to  giving  hints  adapt- 
ed to  all,  I  would  sooner  turn  quack,  and  give  one  dose  for 
all  constitutions  and  all  diseases  ;  for  I  think  it  better  to 
trifle  thus  with  the  body  than  the  soul.  But  there  are  some 
remarks  which  will  apply  equally  to  all  persons  and  all 
courses,  and  to  some  of  these  I  will  ask  your  thought. 

"  I  would  first,  then,  say,  never  read  without  an  object. 
If  you  have  ever  been  called  on  to  study  with  reference  to 
the  attainment  of  some  definite  end,  you  will  remember  that 
what  you  thus  learned  remained  with  you  long  after  most 
that  you  read  had  been  forgotten.  Not  alone  because  you 
went  deeply  into  it  at  the  time,  but  because  it  was  in  your 
mind  so  associated  and  incorporated  with  many  other  sub- 
jects, that  it  is  easily  brought  back  again  in  after  life.  Do 
not,  then,  read  vaguely  and  without  purpose ;  know  what  to 
expect  from  your  book  before  you  begin  it ;  and  at  every 


MANHOOD.  93 

step,  see  what  bearing  what  you  have  read  has  upon  the 
points  before  you.  Many  men  read  every  thing  twice,  — 
once  to  find  out  what  to  read  for,  and  again,  to  learn  what 
is  to  be  learned.  Read,  therefore,  few  very  new  books,  the 
merits  and  objects  of  which  you  know  nothing  about ;  wait 
till  you  know  whereof  the  last  publication  treats,  and  how 
it  treats  it. 

"  Next,  I  would  advise  you  to  read  by  subjects,  not  by  vol- 
umes. I  have  known  many  scholars  who  had  never  read  a 
book  through  in  their  lives,  except,  of  course,  those  of  mere 
amusement.  In  this  way  you  get  comparatively  whole,  not 
fractional  views,  and  both  sides  of  a  question  ;  you  may 
thus  escape  partyism,  partiality,  and  narrow  notions. 

"  In  the  third  place,  I  would  recommend  you  not  to  com- 
monplace your  reading,  but  to  think  it  over,  digest  it,  and, 
if  you  have  time,  reduce  your  own  views,  obtained  from 
what  you  have  read,  to  writing,  in  a  blank  book.  The 
thinking  may  be  done  while  you  are  walking,  waiting  tea, 
sitting  over  the  fire,  or  in  attendance  for  an  unpunctual 
friend.  The  secret  of  writing  much  and  easily  consists,  I 
fancy,  in  sitting  down  to  write  with  your  thoughts  already 
in  your  mind,  instead  of  fishing  in  the  inkstand  for  them. 

"  My  fourth  piece  of  advice  is,  to  draw  up  for  yourself  a 
systematic  list  of  all  the  subjects  of  human  knowledge,  made 
as  particular  as  you  please.  By  a  glance  at  this  you  may 
see  at  once  how  little  you  know  ;  may  refresh  your  knowl- 
edge of  your  ignorance,  and  see  to  what  subjects  you  most 
need  to  turn  your  attention. 

"  Lastly,  I  would  say,  keep  by  you  a  blank  book,  arranged 
as  an  index,  in  which  you  can  enter  references  to  those 
many  passages  and  facts  met  with  daily  by  a  student,  which 
have  no  immediate  connection  with  the  subject  of  the  work 
in  which  they  are  found,  and  which  we  so  often  remember 
to  have  seen,  but  cannot  think  where. 

"  I  will  now  call  your  mind  to  a  question,  which  every  sys- 


94  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

tematic  reader  must  ask  himself,  —  Shall  my  reading  be  con- 
fined to  one  or  two  subjects  until  I  am  thorough  in  them,  or 
shall  it  be  general  and  superficial  ?  Most  whose  advice  you 
would  follow  would,  I  think,  advise  the  first ;  for  my  own  part, 
I  am  in  favor  of  the  last  course.  It  is  true,  that  superficial 
knowledge  should  be  avoided  where  it  can  be  ;  but  to  my 
mind,  the  true  question  is  this,  —  Does  it  best  become  a  being 
destined  for  eternity  to  gain  a  broad  view  of  all  that  he  can 
know,  though  a  very  imperfect  one,  or  one  more  narrow  and 
more  perfect?  If  you  look  into  what  is  said  in  favor  of  thor- 
ough studies,  you  will  find  them  upheld,  generally,  as  the 
means  to  gain  worldly  power  or  distinction  ;  and,  when  this  is 
not  the  case,  they  are  contended  for  by  those  who  have  little 
or  no  faith  in  the  doctrine,  that  our  studies,  habits,  and  occu- 
pations here  will  affect  our  fate  hereafter.  But  to  me  it  is 
clear  that  all  the  powers  and  capacities  of  the  man  are  more 
perfectly  developed,  and  brought  out  in  better  proportion,  by 
gaining  an  outline  merely  of  all  knowledge  within  our  reach, 
than  by  pursuing  any  one  branch  of  knowledge  into  all  its 
details ;  and  the  ridicule  and  scorn  which  have  been  heaped 
upon  'smatterers,'  though  it  may  properly  apply  to  those  who 
go  from  subject  to  subject  without  purpose  and  without  sys- 
tem, cannot,  with  justice,  fall  upon  students  who  go  perfect- 
ly as  far  as  they  go,  and  stop  because  they  perceive  the  in- 
utility  of  going  farther.  Some  one  subject,  it  is  true,  will 
become  the  prominent  one  in  every  man's  mind,  and  it  is 
right  it  should  be  so,  for  every  man  owes  it  to  the  world,  to 
extend,  in  some  direction,  the  circle  of  knowledge,  if  it  be  in 
his  power;  but  the  prominence  differs  from  the  entire  pre- 
dominance of  one  subject.  A  man  may  carry  his  researches 
in  natural  or  mental  philosophy,  history,  or  natural  history, 
beyond  the  common  line,  and  yet  by  no  means  give  up  other 
subjects.  This  has  been  done  by  some  of  the  most  emi- 
nent men  in  all  branches, —  Milton,  Newton,  Locke,  Cole- 
ridge, Goethe.  If  you  read  the  works  of  Coleridge,  for 


MANHOOD.  95 

instance,  you  will  find  continual  references  to  all  branches 
of  natural  and  political  science,  and  will  see  that  from  these 
he  has  drawn  many  of  his  most  admirable  illustrations,  and 
gained  from  them  that  breadth  and  unity  of  thought  which 
must  ever  distinguish  him,  despite  his  many  faults ;  and  the 
great  German  is  a  still  more  striking  instance. 

"  But  the  habit  of  general  and  systematic  study  is  by  no 
means  common  among  either  great  or  small  men.  We  are 
apt,  if  lawyers,  physicians,  or  clergymen,  to  read  upon  no 
subject  as  we  should  read,  except  that  belonging  to  our  pro- 
fession, and  seldom  upon  that.  Other  subjects  we  take  up 
for  amusement,  and  lay  them  down  again  to  resume  or  not 
as  occasion  occurs.  This  I  would  advise  you  never  to  do. 
If  a  work  on  botany  or  biography  falls  in  your  way,  do  not 
touch  it,  unless  you  see  that  you  can  pursue  that  of  which 
it  treats  to  some  purpose  ;  and,  above  all  things,  eschew  the 
habit  of  standing  about  a  library  or  reading-room,  dipping 
for  a  moment  into  this  book  or  that  review,  and  then  turn- 
ing to  another. 

"  Reviews  are  at  times  of  great  use,  because  they  com- 
press knowledge  and  give  references,  and  also  because  they 
excite  an  interest  in  subjects  that,  but  for  them,  we  might 
never  approach  ;  but  they  are,  to  the  student,  edged  tools, 
to  be  used  with  great  caution. 

"I  would  say,  then,  let  your  reading  be  general,  but  by 
no  means  promiscuous  or  vague.  You  may  learn  enough 
of  nature  to  have  the  God  of  nature  always  before  you,  to 
value  all  that  he  has  made,  and  from  his  works,  to  learn 
the  many  lessons  of  mercy,  faith,  love,  and  courage  that 
they  were  meant  to  teach,  and  yet  be  what  men  will  call  a 
smatterer ;  for  you  need  know  few  names,  and  may  be  igno- 
rant of  many  standard  authors.  But  I  should  think  you  far 
wiser  to  gain  this  smattering  than  to  give  the  time  spent  in 
its  gain  to  becoming  perfect  and  thorough  in  the  dates  of 
history,  or  the  minute  facts  of  statistics. 


96  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  But,  while  I  advise  a  large  field  of  study,  I  beg  you  to 
guard  against  the  too  current  practice  of  making  a  very  im- 
perfect knowledge  of  a  subject  enough,  whatever  chances 
may  occur  for  increasing  it ;  1  would  be  content  with  imper- 
fection, because  general  perfection  is  impossible  ;  but  be  as 
thorough  as  you  can  be,  and  never  think  that  you  know 
enough  of  a  subject  when  opportunities  offer  to  increase 
your  knowledge  of  it.  There  is  an  essential  difference  be- 
tween the  man  that  is  content  with  a  scant  view  of  the 
whole  now,  because  he  hopes  to  perfect  that  view  hereafter, 
and  the  man  that  is  content  with  it  because  he  cares  to  know 
no  more. 

"  One  more  remark,  and  I  close  ;  in  choosing  your  sub- 
jects of  study,  have  your  eye  ever  upon  the  great  truth 
that  should  be  our  guide  in  every  pursuit,  and  a  full,  ever- 
present,  ever-influential  faith,  in  which  is  the  beginning,  and 
body,  and  end  of  all  philosophy,  —  the  truth  that  we  are 
immortal  spirits.  Having  this  in  view,  you  will  not,  as 
some  do,  spend  years  in  acquiring  knowledge  that  cannot 
have  any  influence,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  upon  the  eternal 
interests  of  yourself  or  others.  Having  this  in  view,  you  will 
never  narrow  your  reading  to  the  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines of  the  day  ;  nor  yet  despise  them,  for  they  are  your 
only  means  of  communication  with  the  great  mass  of  your 
fellows.  It  is  for  want  of  faith  in  this  truth,  that  the  lawyer 
becomes  a  mere  lawyer,  the  politician  a  devotee  to  the  small 
interests  of  the  time,  and  the  tradesman  a  bondman  of  trade. 
Keep  this  truth,  then,  ever  before  you,  by  attendance  on 
public  worship,  by  private  devotion,  by  the  study  of  Scrip- 
ture, by  the  study  of  nature,  by  reflecting  upon  your  own 
powers,  and  going  over  again  in  thought  your  past  life,  in 
the  opportunities  and  changes  of  which  you  may  see  the 
hand  of  God  schooling  you  for  the  future,  as  clearly  as  you 
see  it  in  the  stars  of  night,  the  clouds  of  noonday,  or  the 
plan  and  formation  of  your  own  body." 


MANHOOD.  97 

But  pecuniary  embarrassments,  —  the  frequent  fate 
of  literary  men,  especially  in  a  new  country,  —  and 
yet  more  the  failure  of  health,  once  more  compelled  Mr. 
Perkins  to  turn  his  thoughts  towards  a  country  life.  In 
the  summer  of  1835,  he  for  a  time  proposed  to  seek  a 
residence  in  Fayal,  but  at  length  determined  to  join  some 
highly  esteemed  friends  in  forming  an  establishment  for 
mining,  milling,  and  manufacturing  at  Pomeroy,  on  the 
Ohio.  Extracts  from  letters  to  various  friends  will  give 
a  vivid  picture  of  his  inward  and  outward  state  during  the 
process  of  this  experiment. 

Cincinnati,  February,  1835.  "  I  said  tny  prospects  in  a 
worldly  way  were  dark.  My  publisher  last  week  failed, 
leaving  me  unpaid  for  all  my  labors  since  August,  and  cut- 
ting off  at  once  more  than  half  my  anticipated  revenue. 
However,  I  have  much  confidence  in  success  somehow.  By 
success,  I  mean,  in  keeping  above  starvation ;  farther  than 

that  I  never  look.  S has  done  much,  and  is  daily  doing 

more  to  improve  me.  She  is  herself  an  embodiment  of 
simple  cheerfulness  and  confiding  love,  and  into  my  intel- 
lectual selfishness  throws  a  light  and  heat  which  never  were 
known  there  before.  In  her  I  have  a  never-failing  spring 
of  joy 

"  In  the  country  I  shall  have  more  time  for  literature  than 
here,  and  I  shall  use  it ;  if  I  have  any  power  to  do  good  to 
others,  and  support  myself  in  part,  by  what  is  always  a 
pleasant  employment,  most  assuredly  I  shall  exercise  it. 
To  some  it  may  seem  to  betoken  a  grovelling  spirit  to  go 
quietly  into  the  country  and  sit  down  there  contented,  —  and 
my  own  kith  and  kin  may  raise  an  outcry ;  but  I  am  of  a 
different  way  of  thinking." 

May,  1835.     "  For  myself  I  should  like  nothing  so  well 
VOL.  i.  9 


98  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

as  to  go  quietly  back  to  Lancaster  or  Northampton,  and  there 
spend  the  remainder  of  my  days  in  silence.  I  love  action,  but 
it  is  action  on  a  small  scale.  I  hate  chicanery,  diplomacy, 
and  every  vile  weed  of  the  sort.  Time  was  when  literary 
ambition  was  a  powerful  stimulant  with  me  ;  but  another, 
and  I  trust  a  more  correct  view  of  life,  and  the  wherefore 
we  live,  has,  in  a  great  measure,  strangled  this  reaching 
after  I  know  not  what,  and  I  am  come  to  the  conclusion, 
that  the  happiest  man  in  this  world  is  he  that  has  but  one 
great  object  in  view,  —  no,  two  I  should  say,  —  self-improve- 
ment, and  the  improvement  of  his  fellows.  I  do  not  mean 
mere  improvement  of  the  mind,  but  of  all  the  improvabilities 
of  our  nature.  The  ambitious  man,  the  money-hunter,  and 
all  those  whose  end  is  on  this  planet,  are  chasing,  as  I  think, 
an  ignis  faluus ;  they  misunderstand  the  great  instinct  of 
human  nature,  which  is  a  desire  continually  to  rise,  to  im- 
prove, to  be  perfect.  Therefore  would  I  willingly  sit  down 
in  any  place,  where  health  could  be  mine,  and  means  of 
doing  good  and  receiving  good  accessible,  and  live  and  die 
as  little  known  and  cared  for  by  the  world  as  now,  —  though 
but  a  few  years  since  such  a  future  would  have  seemed  an 
earthly  hell." 

June,  1835.  "  I  know  but  too  well  the  misery  of  unsat- 
isfied ambition.  Plants,  we  are  told,  will  force  themselves 
from  darkness  into  sunshine,  and  the  instinct  of  the  human 
vegetable  to  do  the  same  thing  is  as  strong.  The  love  of 
power  —  of  which  I  take  the  love  of  renown  to  be  but  an 
offshoot  —  is  common  to  the  whole  human  family;  and 
more,  it  is,  I  believe,  the  peculiar  privilege  which  distin- 
guishes human  beings  from  other  creatures.  It  is  in  fact  the 
most  God-tending,  if  not  God-like,  faculty  of  our  nature,  but, 
like  every  principle,  it  may  go  too  far.  The  whole  secret  of 
true  success  is  to  regulate  it.  He  that  makes  notoriety  the 
end  at  which  he  aims  will  assuredly  suffer,  because  he  does 


MANHOOD.  99 

not  direct  this  principle  aright.  But  the  man  who  guides  its 
action  in  accordance  with  his  reason  and  his  conscience  will 
gain  all  the  objects  of  his  ambition,  and  gain  them  without 

one  pang I  have  gone  into  this  sermon,  because  I 

have  been  in  very  much  the  same  state  of  mind  that  you  are 
in  now,  if  I  judge  aright  ;  and  when  so,  was  much  assisted  by 
the  suggestions  of  a  friend.  In  like  manner  I  would  aid  you 
if  I  could,  simply  by  leading  you  to  reflect  upon  the  true 
end  for  which  we  are  created,  and  placed  among  the  count- 
less means  that  surround  us  in  this  really  beautiful  and 
bright  world,  —  upon  true  eminence,  and  the  true  way  of 
gaining  it.  It  is  a  matter  of  surely  great  import,  but  there 
are  very  few,  even  among  thinking  men,  who  ever  get  clear 
ideas  on  the  subject.  I  hope  you  will  pardon  my  dryness, 
and  not  think  me  meddling." 

July,  1835.  "  It  is  a  curious  matter  to  me  to  trace  the 
manner  in  which  I  have  been  led  through  commerce,  law, 
and  almost  divinity,  to  the  life  that  I  have  coveted  from  my 
earliest  days,  that  of  a  farmer.  I  have  always  felt  that  a 
hand,  of  which  I  knew  nothing,  that  of  Providence,  was 
carrying  me  to  and  fro  upon  the  face  of  the  land,  and  I  am 
now  more  fully  convinced  than  ever  that  such  is  the  case. 
To  a  certain  extent,  my  fortunes  are  in  my  own  hand,  for  it 
is  character  that  gives  character  to  circumstances  ;  but  I 
am  in  a  far  greater  degree  dependent  upon  circumstances. 
Had  I  not  curbed  the  strong  tendency  toward  being  notable 
that  once  was  in  me,  such  a  change  as  the  present  one 
would  have  made  my  spirit  fret  and  kick,  till  mayhap  it 
would  have  kicked  away  this  underpinning  of  a  body,  and 
fallen  into  chaos.  As  it  is,  all  seems  in  my  favor.  My 
chief  want  at  the  time  of  my  advent  to  this  valley  of  the 
West  —  the  want  of  a  wife  —  has  been  supplied,  and  had 
I  searched  the  world,  I  do  not  think  I  could  have  found  one 
better  suited  to  me  and  my  future  situation.  In  her  I  have 


100  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

a  model  —  it  is  a  strong  word,  but  she  deserves  it  —  of  love, 
faith,  and  disinterested  activity,  from  which  if  I  failed  to 
learn,  the  very  stones  would  hiss  at  me.  A  cold  pattern  of 
right-doing  I  might  be  insensible  to,  but  a  warm-hearted, 
living  woman,  who  may  often  do  wrong  but  always  feels 
right,  no  one  can  resist." 

August,  1835.  "  For  myself,  I  am  inclining  more  and 
more  to  silence  and  a  domestic  life.  I  have  been  editor  long 
enough  to  be  abused,  ridiculed,  reviled,  and  eulogized  ;  and 
the  trials  of  my  temper,  patience,  and  vanity  have  not,  I 
trust,  been  profitless.  But  the  notoriety  in  which  some  so 
much  delight  is  to  me  a  most  comfortless  thing  ;  and  though 
I  shall  continue  to  write,  if  I  can  find  publishers,  I  do  not 
wish  to  remain  a  professed  literary  man,  for  I  have  neither 
talent  nor  learning  to  support  the  character  decently.  The 
truth  is,  that  the  influence  of  two  or  three  women  has  woman- 
ized me,  and  I  am  much  more  of  a  lieart-ist  and  less  of  a 
head-ex  than  I  was  a  year  or  two  ago.  I  am  more  and 
more  of  the  opinion,  that  a  man  of  small  ability  does  more 
good  and  fulfils  his  purpose  better  by  unseen,  private  influ- 
ence, —  by  loving  others  and  serving  those  he  loves,  and  in 
every  thing  raising  his  standard  and  himself,  —  than  he  does 
by  a  solitary,  speculative,  writing  career,  though  much  may 
be  done  also  in  the  way  of  writing.  Hereafter,  I  wish  to 
publish  nothing  that  will  not,  in  my  estimation,  do  GOOD  ; 
I  want  to  have  that  object  definitely  before  me  in  all  I  write, 
and  to  have  support  from  other  sources.  My  wife  is  admira- 
bly suited  to  my  character  in  this  respect.  She  lives  in  re- 
ceiving and  doing  good  ;  love  —  not  to  me  alone,  but  to  all 
about  her — is  the  breath  of  her  life.  This  youthfulness  of 
character,  this  childlikeness,  is  the  very  antipode  of  my  own 
semi-artificial  nature  ;  and  by  living  with  her,  I  have  had 
my  character  ripped  up,  and  am  now  making  it  over  again 
in  a  new  fashion,  —  double-breasted,  and  with  a  larger 
skirt." 


MANHOOD.  101 

Pomeroy,  June,  1836.  "  And  where,  you  ask,  is  Pome- 
roy  ?  Look  at  the  map,  and  you  will  find  that  it  is  in  Meigs 
County,  Ohio,  six  miles  southwest  from  Chester,  upon  the 
river,  just  where  it  bends  to  the  north.  In  this  embryo  town 
of  Pomeroy,  in  the  only  finished  and  decent  house  in  said 
town-to-be,  I  am  staying  with  the  Romulus  of  the  place,  S- 
W.  Pomeroy,  once  of  Brighton.  In  the  neighbourhood  of 
this  dwelling,  known  as  Butternut  Cottage,  are  a  saw-mill 
and  a  few  houses  ;  half  a  mile  above  it  is  another  small  settle- 
ment, and  between  the  two  I  am  about  building  a  house,  and 
overseeing  the  building  of  a  mill  for  a  company,  of  which 
mill,  when  built,  I  shall  be  agent  and  factotum.  Our  house 
will  stand  scarcely  a  stone's  throw  from  the  Ohio,  upon  a 
knoll  at  the  foot  of  a  high  clifF  and  hill,  the  place  being 
known  in  the  history  of  Pomeroy  as  the  '  Cedar  ClifF.'  Our 
plantation  will  contain  nearly  two  acres,  reclaimed  for  the 
purpose,  from  the  original  forest.  Should  you  wonder  at 
the  extent  of  my  farm,  know,  thou  dweller  in  the  desert, 
that,  in  this  civilized  part  of  the  world,  land  is  worth  $500 
per  acre,  though  five  years  since  fifty  cents  would  have 
been  thought  a  fair  price.  The  cause  of  this  rise  in  value, 
and  the  cause  of  my  coming  hither,  and  the  cause  of  the 
town-to-be,  is,  that  this  is  a  coal  region,  and  steam-mills  re- 
quire coal.  Here,  then,  after  all  my  changes,  am  I,  I  trust, 
settled  as  a  gardener  and  a  miller ;  and  when  I  look  back 
on  my  past  life,  I  cannot  but  wonder  at  the  path  by  which  I 
have  been  led  to  this  long-sought  point.  Had  I  been  placed 
where  I  am  now  originally,  I  should  probably  soon  have 
regretted  that  I  had  not  been  in  trade  to  grow  rich,  or  in  a 
profession  or  a  literary  life  to  become  known ;  but  it  has 
been  so  arranged  that  I  have  learned  how  to  value  all  these 
things  before  coming  to  my  goal.  Now,  a  quiet  life  of 
simple  pleasures  and  hard  work  is  to  my  taste  what  it  is  to 
my  reason." 

9* 


102  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PEEKINS. 

June,  1836.  "  At  quarrying  stone  we  come  on  poorly. 
The  stones  are  poor,  the  masons  poorer ;  and  were  we  not 
in  extremity,  I  would  not  employ  them.  But,  though  the 
'Old  Serpent' send  twenty  hard  Harts  and  hard  rocks  to 
annoy  me,  he  shall  not  win  the  battle,  nor  move  one  hair  of 
my  patience.  I  am  too  well,  strong,  and  content  with  what- 
ever befalls,  to  willingly  believe  his  Satanic  Majesty  can  use 
me  up  more  than  I  have  used  up  the  rocks." 

"  As  to  the  name  of  our  estate,  let  it  be  as  you  please. 
'  Cedar  Cliffs  '  is  pretty  enough,  but  rather  too  high-sound- 
ing, and  false,  besides.  Now,  if  I  had  remained  a  law- 
yer, I  should  not  mind  lying,  but  I  don't  think  it  becoming 
a  miller.  The  commonness  of  '  Grapery '  is  the  very 
recommendation  of  the  name  to  me  ;  for,  being  but  a 
common  place,  and  having  but  commonplace  owners,  I 
think  a  commonplace  name  most  suitable.  As  for  '  Rock 
Dale,'  I  would  as  soon  call  it  '  Rock  Cod,'  which  would 
be  much  more  appropriate,  as  we  shall  have  cod-fish,  but 
'  devil  a  bit '  of  a  dale.  Upon  the  whole,  I  think  the  name 
had  better  remain  in  suspense  for  a  time." 

July,  1836.  "  I  came  to  Ohio  dreaming  of  a  wife,  a 
quiet  home  by  the  river,  a  small  estate,  a  mill,  —  it  is  true, 
while  at  sea,  I  dreamt  for  hours  of  being  a  mill-owner  in 
Ohio,  —  some  literary  name,  and  a  library.  It  has  pleased 
the  Shaper  of  our  fortunes  to  give  me  —  at  least  in  near 
prospect  —  all  that  I  wished,  and  more,  for  I  never  dreamt 
of  you,  nor  of  a  country  life  with  the  society  we  may  have 
here.  But  above  all,  in  my  visions  for  the  future  I  never 
looked  forward  to  so  great  a  change  of  character  as  you 
have  wrought  in  me  ;  may  God  bless  you  for  it ! " 

"  The  worst  of  the  business,  however,  is  the  deception, 
want  of  punctuality,  and  want  of  care,  among  workmen.  I 


MANHOOD.  103 

have  avoided  much  trouble  by  my  constant  presence  and 
inspection,  otherwise  few  things  would  be  done  well.  What 
a  mistake  it  is  to  get  out  of  humor  about  matters  ;  I  have  a 
teamster  working  for  me  that  has  not  been  good-humored 
one  moment  since  he  came ;  he  's  always  in  a  passion, 
'  darning,'  and  '  swowing,'  and  '  by  Gosh-ing,'  and  would  be 
worth  some  money  to  a  large  dealer  in  bonny-clapper,  he 
looks  so  perennially  sour.  I  pity  such  people,  for  I  once 
belonged  to  the  same  class." 

July,  1836.  "  It  seems  as  if  Satan  had  mustered  strongly 
to  disquiet  me.  My  stone-mason  is  laid  up,  and  my  team- 
ster is  on  his'  back  ;  the  horses  have  the  distemper,  and  the 

work  that  should  be  cannot  be  done  ;  then steps  down 

last  evening,  and  says  that  he  should  not  be  much  surprised 
if  the  knoll  on  which  I  am  building  should  one  day  slip  or 
settle  into  the  hollow,  and  our  house  be  '  knocked  into  a 
cocked  hat.'  Hurrying  to  my  labors  again,  a  man  tells  me 
the  river  is  rising  rapidly,  and  will  sweep  my  100,000  shin- 
gles to  New  Orleans  before  morning  ;  and,  to  comfort  me 
under  these  prospects,  I  can  look  back  upon  —  what  think 
you  ?  — a  half-quarrel  with in  the  afternoon  !  It  hap- 
pened thus.  When  the  mill  was  finished,  he  was  to  have  the 
masons,  but  as  he  had  made  no  preparation  for  them,  and  I 
wanted  some  few  stone  to  finish  our  cellar,  I  took  them  for  a 

day.     Well,  in  the  afternoon came  up  to  where  we 

were  working,  and  asked  me,  with  abruptness,  '  when  I 
should  be  clone  hauling  stone.'  It  was  the  first  salutation. 
I  said,  I  suppose,  with  still  greater  abruptness,  but  without  the 
least  consciousness  of  it,  '  When  I  get  enough.'  This  gave 
offence,  as  I  soon  saw,  and  he  was  departing  in  anger  ;  but 
I  took  his  arm,  led  him  into  the  shade,  and  half  laughed, 
half  reasoned  him  into  good-humor  again.  This  adventure 
taught  me  to  beware  of  my  own  bad  humors,  and  to  think  of 
the  characters  of  those  I  have  to  deal  with 


104  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  But,  despite  all  the  Enemy's  endeavours,  I  am  little 
moved.  What  God  wills,  be  it  the  destruction  of  all  our 
plans  and  hopes  here,  or  whatever  it  be,  to  that  I  think  I  can 
resign  myself,  though  it  may  cost  a  struggle  to  do  so.  As 

regards •,  I  was  to  blame,  but  I  redeemed  my  error  by 

a  sacrifice  of  my  pride,  and  that  was  all  I  could  do 

"  Mr.  B 's  letter  I  was  very  glad  to  receive,  and 

shall  write  him  again  whenever  I  have  leisure  ;  but  even  in 
that  there  was  one  trial  in  what  he  says  touching  my  writ- 
ing for  the  Examiner,  and  Mr.  W 's  opinion.  It  pained 

me,  because  I  know  that  Mr.  B 's  estimate  of  my  intel- 
lect and  character  is  very  wrong,  and  wholly  exaggerated, 
and  in  his  warm  praise  of  me  to  others  I  hear  what  will 
raise  expectations  that  must  be  disappointed." 

August,  1836.  "  I  have  become  badly  poisoned,  prob- 
ably with  ivy,  in  clearing  up  our  place.  Yesterday  morning 
the  humor  broke  out  more  or  less  all  over  me,  and  from  that 
time  to  this  I  have  been  really  in  agony  from  the  intolerable 

itching  of  face,  hands,  and  body.     Dr. has  prescribed 

an  ointment  of  lard  and  sugar  of  lead,  with  which  agreeable 
mixture  I  am  now  well  basted.  The  worst  of  the  matter  is, 
that  I  have  some  twenty  men  to  be  looked  to  and  directed, 
and  am  forced  to  hobble  to  and  fro,  feeling  as  if  I  were  one 
vast  mosquito-bite.  I  am  glad,  however,  my  dear  wife,  that 
you  are  not  with  me  ;  you  could  do  nothing  for  me  ;  I  am 
fidgety  and  cross,  and  I  should  probably  poison  you.  Be- 
fore you  read  this  it  will  all  be  over,  a  matter  of  history  to 
be  talked  of  and  laughed  at.  Even  now,  while  in  full  viru- 
lence, I  can  improve  it  to  my  good,  and  cultivate  patience 
and  resignation  as  readily,  and  in  as  rank  a  soil,  as  I  hope 
by  and  by  to  cultivate  melons  and  cucumbers  in." 

Pomeroy,  September,  1837.  "  Our  worldly  walkings  and 
workings  here  have  produced  no  fruit  but  certain  potatoes 


MANHOOD.  105 

and  cauliflowers,  together  with  a  small  modicum  of  wisdom. 
Some  four  thousand  silver  dollars  have  dwindled,  under  the 
united  influence  of  bad  times  and  worse  management,  to 
four  hundred,  paper  currency,  ragged  and  very  greasy. 
Our  house  —  just  built  here,  under  the  shade  of  sugar- 
maples  and  oaks,  with  the  Ohio  a  few  hundred  feet  before 
us,  and  the  mighty  sand-cliffs,  that  whisk  us  back  into  past 
eternity,  behind  —  we  are  forced  to  sell  at  half  cost;  and 
having  but  just  unpacked  and  settled,  as  we  thought,  must 
pack  up  again  and  take  up  our  march  for  another  corner  of 
the  '  Garden  of  Eden,'  as  we  think  it  best  to  call  this  earth, 
in  order  that  she  may  have  no  cause  of  quarrel.  Whither 
we  shall  go  is  somewhat  uncertain,  but  most  probably  on  to 
a  small  farm  of  ten  to  twenty  acres,  somewhere  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Cincinnati,  there  to  raise  potatoes  and  fruit-trees,  and 
write  articles  that  might  as  well  not  be  written. 

"  I  have  always  had  a  standard  with  respect  to  daily  em- 
ployments, that  I  have  been  trying,  so  far  without  success, 
to  live  up  to.  I  want  hard  bodily  labor  enough  to  keep  me 
in  health  ;  enough  of  business  to  exercise  my  order,  activity, 
and  perceptive  powers,  and  leisure  enough  for  reading  and 
writing  to  keep  me  from  petrifying  into  a  thorough  man  of 
business.  Having  weak  eyes  yet,  I  am  forced  to  find  day- 
light enough  for  all  these  things,  and  this,  as  society  is  now 
constituted,  is  no  easy  matter.  In  coming  here  I  thought  I 
had  attained  my  end,  but  bad  advice  as  to  cost  of  building, 
bad  management  on  my  own  part,  and  somewhat  unlocked 
for  mishaps,  have  disappointed  me.  I  now  propose  to  try 
the  experiment  on  a  smaller  scale,  content  myself  with  a 
log-cabin,  literally,  and  make  a  bold  push  for  independence 
on  an  income  of  $  150  per  annum  !  Such  is  a  chart  of  my 
proposed  course  in  a  worldly  way. 

"  Spiritually,  I  fear  I  have  done  scarce  as  well  as  in  busi- 
ness. I  have  met  some  hard  rubs,  and  my  skin  was  too 
thin  to  stand  them.  However,  I  believe,  all  things  consid- 


106  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

ered,  that  both  my  outer  and  inner  tumbles  of  the  year  past 
will  help  me  in  finally  gaining  the  prize  I  am  after,  and  that 
more  speedily  and  certainly  than  an  easier  journey  would 
have  done.  A  great  deal  of  latent  selfishness  still  pervades 
my  frame,  and  it  wants  a  heavy  pressure  to  force  it  out ; 
and  if  that  which  has  been  on  me  has  sometimes  expelled  it 
in  explosive  quantities,  still  so  much  of  it  is  gone,  which  is  a 
great  comfort." 

Returning  to  Cincinnati  for  the  winter  of  1837  -  38, 
Mr.  Perkins  at  once  set  about  fulfilling  the  humble  plan 
sketched  briefly  in  the  last  letter.  He  bought  a  few 
acres  of  ground,  which  seemed  to  present  a  good  site  for 
a  nursery,  on  the  Hamilton  road,  about  six  miles  from 
Cincinnati,  and  made  arrangements  for  building  a  cottage 
of  dimensions  as  moderate  as  his  hopes.  Meanwhile, 
he  occupied  himself  in  visiting  the  schools,  lecturing, 
preparing  articles  for  magazines,  and  arranging  a  volume 
for  publication.  "  I  have  just  been  writing,"  he  says, 
"an  essay  on  the  new  views  of  Zoology,  which  make 
the  whole  animated  world  one,  and  attempt  to  demon- 
strate its  laws,  as  Newton  demonstrated  those  of  the  in- 
animate world.  The  subject  is  a  most  interesting  one. 
I  propose,  also,  to  publish  two  volumes,  one  containing 
the  'Constitutional  Opinions  of  Judge  Marshall,'  the 
other  'Reminiscences  of  the  St.  Domingo  Insurrection,' 
by  my  father,  who  was  there  during  the  whole.  These 
I  shall  get  printed  when  I  go  on  to  the  eastward  to  learn 
my  new  business,  the  management  of  fruit-trees.  By 
means  of  these  works  I  hope,  at  least,  to  pay  our  way 
on  and  back,  if  nothing  more.  They  may  serve  as  an 
introduction,  too,  to  such  acquaintances  as  will  here- 
after enable  me  to  earn  something  by  my  pen,  for  though 


MANHOOD.  107 

the  hands  may  feed,  the  head  must  clothe  myself  and 
my  wife,  and  we  shall  henceforth  walk  attired,  not  in 
silks  and  velvets,  but  in  folio  and  foolscap." 

Accordingly,  in  the  spring  of  1838,  he  returned  to 
Brookline  to  superintend  these  publications,  and  to  be- 
come for  a  few  months  pupil  of  his  father,  who  was  one 
of  the  most  enthusiastic,  scientific,  and  successful  hor- 
ticulturists in  New  England.  In  regard  to  his  volume 
of  "  Marshall's  Constitutional  Opinions,"  he  had  the 
great  satisfaction  of  receiving  from  Judge  Story  the  fol- 
lowing high  tribute  of  praise  : —  "  The  list  of  cases  is 
very  full  and  perfect  ;  the  general  plan  is  judicious  and 
appropriate  ;  the  abstracts  are  accurate  and  satisfactory, 
clear,  and  exactly  such  as  can  be  easily  comprehended 
by  unprofessional  as  well  as  professional  readers."  Not- 
withstanding this  strong  recommendation,  however,  and 
the  general  approval  of  his  plan  by  leading  jurists,  he 
met  with  considerable  difficulty  in  finding  a  publisher. 
The  "  Reminiscences  of  St.  Domingo  "  was  begun  and 
half  written,  and  proved  to  be  admirably  graphic  and 
interesting,  but  owing  to  the  untimely  appearance  of 
another  work  on  the  same  topic,  which  seemed  to  fore- 
stall the  market,  it  was  unfortunately  laid  aside.  His 
leisure  hours  he  then  devoted  to  an  article  on  Carlyle's 
French  Revolution,  for  the  New  York  Review.  "  What 
a  Mirabeau-like  book  it  is,"  he  says,  "pock-marked, 
shaggy-haired,  monstrous,  original,  yet  alive  from  top  to 
toe.  You  are  against  me,  it  seems,  in  not  thinking  its 
style  affected,  that  is,  assumed.  I  trust  you  are  right, 
for  an  eruption  on  the  skin  is  apt  to  be  a  sign  of  inward 
disease.  But  to  my  mind,  the  evidence  that  Carlyle 
adopted  his  peculiar  form  of  speech  because  he  thought 
it  would  tell,  is  very  strong.  At  any  rate,  I  fear  that 


108  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

his  example  will  lead  many  to  put  on  with  malice  afore- 
thought a  similar  phraseology.  Yet  essentially  the  book 
is,  according  to  Continental  rules  of  criticism,  a  high 
work  of  art." 

In  November,  1848,  Mr.  Perkins  returned  to  the 
West  ;  and  it  was  now  that  our  intimate  friendship  was 
renewed  once  more  by  daily  intercourse,  —  for,  mainly 
owing  to  his  solicitations  and  the  hope  of  having  his 
sympathy  and  aid,  I  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  minis- 
ter to  the  First  Congregational  Society  of  Cincinnati, 
and  had  already  entered  upon  my  work.  The  day  after 
his  arrival  we  walked  out  to  Cheviot  to  visit  his  snug 
little  cottage  and  his  nursery-grounds,  which  he  was 
anxious  to  put  in  trim  for  the  next  year's  operations.  It 
was  one  of  the  serenest  days  of  the  Indian  summer,  and 
silvery  lustre  suffused  the  heavens  and  softly  flooded  hill 
and  valley.  On  our  return  we  left  the  highway,  and, 
striking  to  the  south,  reached  an  open  grove  on  the  south- 
erly slope  of  a  range  of  heights  commanding  the  valley 
of  the  Queen  City  ;  and  here,  as  we  lay  under  the 
ancient  trees,  amid  the  unbroken  stillness,  with  the  plain 
outspread  beneath  us,  teeming  with  creative  industry,  he 
told  me  of  his  life  in  this  new  world.  It  was  a  beautiful 
romance  of  reality,  and  I  saw  at  once  how  a  sensitive 
yet  strong  nature,  nipped,  as  it  were,  by  spring  frosts,  and 
dwarfed  by  eastern  winds,  had  shot  up  and  leafed  and 
blossomed  under  more  genial  skies.  The  sternness, 
silence,  listless  indifference,  which,  on  each  visit  of  my 
cousin  to  Boston,  I  had  observed  gradually  obscuring  his 
manner  like  a  fog,  were  now  melted  away  into  sunny 
sweetness. 

He  talked  of  the  Great  West,   of  its   immeasurable 


MANHOOD.  109 

physical  resources,  from  the  prairies  and  oak-openings  of 
Illinois  and  Michigan  to  the  cypress  swamps  and  vast 
savannahs  of  Louisiana  and  Arkansas,  with  majestic  riv- 
ers from  the  Alleghanies  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  Rocky 
Mountains  on  the  other,  rolling  their  accumulated  waters 
through  its  midst,  —  its  surface  verdant  and  prolific  inex- 
haustibly with  a  loamy  soil,  deposited  by  ages  upon  ages, 
and  underlaid  from  end  to  end  by  coal,  lime,  iron,  and 
various  metals  ;  he  talked  of  Fulton  and  Fitch,  and  the 
magic  might  of  steam,  by  whose  agency  every  water- 
course was  made,  like  a  giant  genius,  a  bearer  of  burdens 
and  a  swift  express  in  ceaseless  industrial  interchange, 
and  at  whose  touch  the  agricultural  and  mineral  resources 
of  the  land  were  transmuted  to  manufactured  wealth  ;  he 
talked  of  the  pulse  of  emigration,  which  from  surcharged 
Europe  was  pouring  in  an  immense  population  to  be  re- 
oxygenated  in  these  great  lungs,  intermingled  with  fresh 
elements,  and  thence  returned  to  renovate  Christendom 
by  hope,  and  liberty,  and  love  ;  he  talked  of  the  possible 
and  probable  future  of  this  grand  empire  of  united  free- 
men, and  of  the  responsibilities  devolving  on  this  genera- 
tion, which  was  inevitably  moulding  a  long  future  by  the 
character  of  its  institutions,  manners,  creeds,  and  wor- 
ship ;  he  talked  of  the  danger  of  mercenary  inhumanity 
and  earthly-minded  politics  amid  such  stimulants  to  self- 
ish indulgence,  of  the  temptations  of  lawless  democracy 
freed  from  traditionary  restraints  and  sanctions,  and  of 
the  urgent  need  that  every  person  of  principle  and  power 
should  consecrate  his  best  energies  to  the  introduction  of 
Social  Equality,  Popular  Education,  Christian  Brother- 
hood, and,  above  all,  Spiritual-Mindedness  ;  and  as  he 
talked,  it  appeared  how  filled  he  was  with  grateful  joy, 
yet  solemn  awe,  in  the  consciousness  that  it  was  his  priv- 
VOL.  i.  10 


110  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

ilege  to  be  a  fellow-worker  in  the  very  heart  of  this  cho- 
sen nation. 

Day  by  day,  as  I  met  my  friend  in  society  and  public 
meetings,  observed  him  in  his  relations  to  others,  and 
talked  with  them  about  him,  it  became  evident  how  high 
was  the  position  which  —  quite  unawares  —  he  really 
occupied  among  his  fellow-citizens.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  unpretending  than  his  manner,  as  in  slouch- 
ed cap,  carelessly-tied  neckcloth,  loose  rough  frock, 
Kentucky-jean  pantaloons,  and  stout  boots,  which  bore 
traces  of  long  excursions  through  mud  or  dust,  he  ex- 
changed off-hand  greetings  as  he  swept  along  the  street,* 
or,  with  the  slight  alterations  in  attire  demanded  by 
merest  neatness,  entered  with  gracious  demureness  the 
crowded  circles  of  society,  or  the  quiet  houses  of  friends. 
Wherever  he  might  be,  with  a  poor  man  on  the  corner, 
at  committee-meetings  for  business,  or  in  a  "  Semico- 
lon "  party,  he  was  always  himself,  and  quite  unique  in 
his  singular  blending  of  dignity  and  diffidence,  of  firm 
self-reliance  and  habitually  modest  estimates,  of  essential 
respect  for  all  and  utter  disregard  of  conventional  dis- 
tinctions, of  decision  and  reverence.  A  spirit  of  ear- 
nest intelligence,  of  downright  good-sense,  of  interest  in 
great  aims  and  indifference  to  trifles,  seemed  to  spread 
out  from  him,  and  clothe  him  with  an  air  of  quiet  power. 
He  took  naturally,  and  as  of  right,  the  attitude  of  broth- 
erly kindness  towards  high  and  low,  learned  and  igno- 
rant, men  and  women,  young  and  old,  and  met  all  on  the 

*  A  humorous  friend,  while  speaking  of  the  striking  contrast  be- 
tween Mr.  Perkins's  fine  ideal  head  and  his  common  dress  and  man- 
ner, thus,  with  quaint  fidelity,  described  his  style  of  walking  :  —  "  His 
head  looked  as  if  it  was  above  minding  the  legs  ;  and  the  legs  looked 
as  if  they  did  not  care  whether  the  head  minded  them  or  not." 


MANHOOD.  Ill 

broad  table-land  of  manly  truth.  This  unaffected  integ- 
rity and  characteristic  single-mindedness  it  plainly  was 
that  gave  him  such  a  hold  over  others.  They  bestowed 
more  regard  on  him,  because  personally  he  asked  for 
none  ;  they  relied  upon  his  opinion,  because  it  seemed 
rather  wisdom,  than  he,  that  spoke  ;  they  obeyed  his 
counsel,  because  he  never  laid  down  the  law,  but  turned 
all  inward  upon  their  own  convictions  ;  they  loved  him 
for  his  kindly  considerateness  of  others  ;  they  honored 
him  because  he  was  so  humble  ;  and  it  was  a  lesson  on 
the  inspiring  influence  of  genuine  good-will  to  see  how, 
for  the  time  being,  he  fashioned  those  around  after  the 
likeness  of  his  own  sincerity. 

It  was  a  pleasant  stimulus,  too,  to  observe  his  versatile 
ability,  and  easy  promptitude  on  most  diverse  occasions. 
Always  he  seemed  equally  self-possessed  and  present- 
minded.  Whether  it- was  to  tell  a  story  to  a  group  of 
children,  to  bear  a  part  with  grave  jocularity  in  some 
play  of  wit  with  sprightly  girls,  to  discuss  among  peers 
the  current  topics  of  the  day,  to  consult  with  elders 
and  influential  persons  on  matters  of  moment,  to  ex- 
amine or  exhort  a  common  school,  to  unfold  by  con- 
versation some  profound  principle  in  religious  meet- 
ings, or  to  address  a  public  assembly,  he  seemed  per- 
fectly ready.  His  information  was  well  arranged  and 
accessible,  his  memory  quick  and  sure,  his  powers  of 
discrimination  and  combination  duly  harmonized,  his  im- 
agination vivid,  his  judgment  in  equipoise,  his  feelings 
governed.  He  took  the  average  tone  of  those  around 
him,  and  by  easy  gradations  raised  them  to  the  level  of 
his  own  thought,  neither  dizzying  his  hearers  by  flights 
of  enthusiasm,  nor  letting  attention  creep  in  common- 
places ;  he  had  a  soberness  of  ideality,  that  never  daz- 


112  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

zled,  yet  threw  a  brightened  radiance  on  every  theme  ; 
he  could  be  earnest  without  extravagance  ;  he  used,  un- 
consciously, a  rare  skill  in  clear  statements  ;  he  had  a 
forefeeling  of  changing  moods  in  his  auditors,  and  knew 
how  by  gentle  humor  to  soften  asperities,  by  lively  sallies 
to  expose  inconsistencies,  or  by  rapid  digressions  to 
glide  past  difficult  points  ;  and  finally,  in  private  talk  or 
public  speech,  he  instinctively  regarded  limits,  and  felt 
where  and  how  to  stop.  This  consummate  balance  of 
inward  faculty,  tact  in  management,  and  self-centred  pow- 
er, admirably  fitted  him  for  leadership  ;  and  wherever  he 
was,  he  led. 

It  appeared  to  be  a  sad  waste  of  spiritual  capital,  that, 
at  his  period  of  life,  Mr.  Perkins  should  retire  from  ac- 
tive life,  though  doubtless  there  were  considerations  of 
health  and  of  pecuniary  subsistence  which  made  his  hor- 
ticultural plan  otherwise  expedient.  But  it  seemed  as  if 
he  was  just  the  man  for  Cincinnati,  and  Cincinnati  just 
the  place  for  him.  His  training  had  been  so  various  and 
his  spiritual  discipline  so  searching  ;  his  very  external 
failures  had  so  wrought  out  his  inward  triumphs  ;  his  prin- 
ciples were  so  clear,  and  his  aims  so  high  ;  there  was  such 
a  fund  of  rich  life  lying  latent  in  him,  and  waiting  only  fit 
occasion  for  service  of  God  and  man,  —  that  one  could  not 
feel  reconciled  to  his  comparatively  burying  his  talent  in 
the  ground.  All  who  knew  him  were  of  the  same  opin- 
ion. Circumstances  beyond  his  own  control  had  planted 
him  in  Cincinnati  ;  his  finest  tendencies  had  taken  root 
there  and  gathered  nutriment ;  —  why  should  he  be  trans- 
planted just  as  the  fruit  had  formed  beneath  the  blossom, 
and  was  ready  to  ripen  ?  He  must  be  made  to  stay. 
But  how  ? 

Providentially  the  way  opened,  — the  very  way  which 


MANHOOD.  113 

of  all  others  he  would  have  preferred,  though  he  had 
never  premeditated  entering  upon  such  a  course.  It 
had  just  been  determined  by  some  of  the  most  philan- 
thropic members  of  the  First  Congregational  Society, 
chief  among  whom  were  Messrs.  John  C.  Vaughan, 
Charles  Stetson,  and  William  Greene,  to  establish  in 
Cincinnati  a  Ministry  at  Large,  and  partly  by  contribu- 
tions among  themselves,  partly  by  aid  from  the  American 
Unitarian  Association,  a  small  sum  had  been  raised  for 
the  purpose.  Learning  that  Mr.  C.  P.  Cranch,  who, 
in  the  absence  of  a  fit  agent,  had  accepted  for  a  few 
weeks  this  charitable  office,  was  compelled  to  return  to 
the  East  and  resume  his  professional  duties,  we  con- 
sulted whether  this  would  not  be  a  suitable  post  for  Mr. 
Perkins.  That  his  comprehensive  views  of  society,  sa- 
gacity, business  habits,  benevolence,  and  practical  piety 
qualified  him  for  such  a  function,  was  clear  ;  and  also 
that  the  confidence  felt  in  him  by  his  fellow-citizens 
generally  would  give  him  a  vantage-ground  for  intro- 
ducing a  novel  plan.  Would  this  ministry  among  the 
poor  accord  with  his  own  convictions  of  duty  ?  We 
could  but  make  the  proposal.  "  I  remember  well  the 
day,"  says  Mr.  Vaughan,  "  when  Mr.  Perkins  came 
into  my  office  and  said  that  he  would  undertake  the  Min- 
istry at  Large.  He  was  truly  eloquent  ;  I  never  heard 
him  more  so,  than  when  he  spoke  of  the  dignity  of  the 
station  and  the  greatness  of  the  work.  '  Gladly  will  I 
consecrate  my  life  to  this  ministry,'  was  his  expression. 
And  he  did  take  hold  of  it  with  a  wisdom  and  energy 
which  have  already  done  much  for  Cincinnati,  and  have 
been  the  means  of  quickening  there  a  spirit  of  humanity 
that  can  never  die." 
10* 


114  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1838-39  that  Mr.  Perkins 
entered  on  his  MINISTRY  TO  THE  POOR,  and  from  that 
time  till  his  death  he  was  a  livins;  centre  of  charitable 

C? 

action  in  Cincinnati,  from  whose  often  unseen,  yet  effi- 
cient, influence  flowed  forth  an  exhaustless  stream  of 
wise  beneficence.  His  first  work  was  to  become  in- 
formed of  the  moral  and  social  condition  of  the  city, 
which  he  did  by  thorough  personal  explorations  ;  and 
he  immediately  made  up  his  mind  that  only  by  some 
united  action,  embracing  all  religious  sects  and  political 
parties,  could  the  reform  and  prevention  of  pauperism 
be  insured.  To  this  point,  thenceforth,  he  directed  his 
efforts, — first  forming  a  visiting  committee  among  the 
Unitarian  society  and  those  who  were  willing  to  coop- 
erate with  them,  —  then  attempting  a  system  of  district 
visitation  for  the  whole  city  and  suburbs,  —  and  finally, 
successfully  organizing  the  Relief  Union.  At  his  en- 
trance on  his  duties  he  found  an  energetic  fellow-laborer 
in  the  Episcopal  City  Missionary,  Rev.  Alfred  Blake, 
as  well  as  in  the  Secretary  of  the  Charitable  Intelligence 
Office,  Mr.  A.  Spiller  ;  but  afterward  he  toiled  on  very 
much  alone,  feeling  himself  hindered  by  sectarian  jeal- 
ousies among  the  clergy,  though  often  cordially  furthered 
by  the  laity,  until  he  met  with  the  devoted  agent  of  the 
Relief  Union,  Mr.  A.  L.  Bushnell. 

How  comprehensive  were  Mr.  Perkins's  aims  in  this 
ministry  will  appear  in  part  from  a  letter  written  in  the 
early  spring  of  1839,  and  from  the  Report  of  the  Chari- 
table Intelligence  Office,  which  follow  :  — 

"The  mantle  of  Minister  at  Large  has  fallen  upon  me, 
and  in  this  vocation  I  hope  somewhat  to  realize  that  useful- 
ness to  which  you  allude  as  the  crowning  gift  of  man.  The 


MANHOOD.  115 

field  is  wide  and  undug  ;  my  spade  is  dull  and  weak,  but  by 
care  it  may  loosen  the  hard  soil,  or  turn  over  that  which  the 
frosts  of  misfortune  have  already  mellowed.  Pauperism, 
Poverty,  Infidelity,  Vice,  Crime,  —  these  are  five  well-armed 
and  most  determined  demons  to  war  with, —  true  children 
of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  Devil,  which,  jockey-like, 
cross  and  recross  their  breeds  for  ever,  to  keep  up  the 
health  of  disease,  and  the  life  of  death.  Against  these  keen 
and  bold  warriors  I  am  opening  my  works  slowly  and  with 
care,  and  by  the  time  you  come  back  may  have  brought  a 
gun  or  two  to  bear. 

"  By  the  time  you  come  back,  I  say  ;  for,  in  spite  of  all 
things,  I  think  you  will  come  back  sooner  or  later.  Come  ! 
we  will  see  if  we  cannot  muster  men  of  talent,  knowledge, 
wisdom,  genius,  and  goodness  here,  enough  to  keep  the  city 
from  putrefying.  Bring  back  your  cultivation,  power,  learn- 
ing, and  enthusiasm,  and  join  us ;  we  will  form  an  '  Anti- 
septic Society '  ;  you  shall  be  spice,  and  I  will  be  common 
salt,  and saltpetre,  and charcoal. 

"  Two  hundred  years  hence,  men  will  lift  their  hands 
over  the  blindness  and  fanaticism  of  our  time,  as  we  raise 
ours  in  wonder  and  horror  over  the  persecution  of  the 
Quakers,  and  the  burning  of  all  heretics.  It  is  very  hard  to 
realize  that  one  is  living  at  midnight  instead  of  noonday  ; 
amidst  darkness  and  not  light ;  and  yet  I  suppose  that,  prone 
as  we  are  to  think  all  knowledge  and  wisdom  and  power  at 
our  mercy  now,  we  are  no  more  at  the  end  of  Christian 
civilization  than  our  fathers  were  when  they  first  put  on 
breeches  of  untanned  skin.  Look  at  the  railroad,  the  calcu- 
lating machine,  the  new  style  of  engraving  with  sunlight, — 
when  will  such  material  changes  cease  ?  And  for  moral 
and  social  changes,  are  we  not  likely  to  upset  all  the  old- 
world  notions  ?  Such  desperate  locofocos  never  were  dip- 
ped in  brimstone  as  the  lest  of  us  —  a  few  of  you  travelled 
gentry  alone  excepted  —  are  becoming.  It  would  make 


116  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

your  hair  turn  snow-white  to  hear  the  Radicalism  that  of  a 
Thursday  evening,  in  our  vestry-room,  makes  the  Unitarian 
church  rock  to  its  foundations  !  " 

"  Six  months  having  passed  since  the  '  Charitable  Intelli- 
gence Office '  was  first  opened,  the  subscribers  think  it 
proper  to  make  some  report  of  their  doings  to  those  who 
have  so  liberally  given  to  them  for  the  relief  of  the  suffering. 
They  would  also  take  this  opportunity  of  calling  the  minds 
of  their  fellow-citizens  to  the  great  subject  of  Pauperism. 

"  Few  persons  in  America,  very  few  in  the  West,  yet 
realize  how  important  this  subject  of  Pauperism  may  be- 
come in  a  very  short  time.  Its  evils,  physical  and  moral, 
are  more  or  less  known  to  all  readers  ;  but  who  is  there  that 
feels  deeply  the  need  of  immediate  and  energetic  action  to 
prevent  the  rapid  spread  of  those  evils,  here,  in  Cincinnati, 
or  elsewhere  in  our  rich  and  prosperous  valley  ?  And  yet 
there  is,  at  this  moment,  a  very  strong  band  of  true  paupers 
in  this  community,  —  a  circle  of  them  extending  through  the 
whole  city,  from  Fulton  to  Mill  Creek.  And  this  circle,  the 
high-school  of  vice  and  crime,  spreads  daily,  as  all  rotten- 
ness does,  and  will  lead  to  undreamed  of  troubles  and  ex- 
penses, unless  dealt  with  at  once.  Every  man  in  Cincinnati 
is  bound  to  help  in  stopping  the  growth  of  pauperism  ;  the 
man  of  property,  because  his  houses  and  goods  are  endan- 
gered by  it ;  the  man  of  family,  rich  or  poor,  because  it 
threatens  with  ruin  his  sons  and  daughters  ;  the  friend  of 
education,  because  it  is  the  deadliest  foe  to  knowledge  and 
labor  ;  the  Christian,  because  it  is  one  of  Satan's  chief  nets 
to  catch  souls  with. 

"  Pauperism  does  not  yet  exist  among  us  widely,  as  in 
England,  Ireland,  and  Switzerland  ;  but  it  does  exist  among 
us  deeply,  and  in  a  very  bad  form.  Scenes  of  more  wretch- 
edness and  more  depravity  cannot  be  met  with,  we  fear,  in 
any  land,  than  may  be  found  now  and  then  in  Cincinnati 


MANHOOD.  117 

even,  young  and  healthy  as  the  society  in  the  main  is  here ! 
Very  many  children,  more  than  any  of  us  know  of,  are 
learning  daily  the  lessons  of  iniquity  in  our  midst,  and  teach- 
ing them  to  the  children  of  happier  birth  in  the  great  semi- 
nary of  the  street.  It  is  a  strange  and  a  dreadful  thing,  but 
one  of  no  unfrequent  occurrence,  to  hear  from  boys  and 
girls  of  ten  and  twelve,  and  even  of  six  and  seven,  accounts, 
drawn  from  nature,  of  every  evil  practice,  from  simple 
drunken  revelry  down  to  theft  and  bloodshed. 

"  To  aid  in  diminishing,  or  at  any  rate  in  withstanding 
the  growth  of  pauperism,  was  our  purpose  in  opening  our 
office.  We  did  not  and  do  not  wish  to  cause  more  alms- 
giving, for  we  are  convinced  that  enough,  if  not  too  much, 
already  exists  in  Cincinnati.  The  liberality  of  our  citizens 
has  shone  out  brightly  during  the  past  winter  ;  through  soci- 
eties and  through  individuals,  very  large  amounts  have  been 
given  to  the  poor,  and  in  general  with  very  good  judgment, 
so  far  as  we  are  aware.  Our  aim  and  wish  is  to  combine 
alms-giving  with  measures  calculated  to  diminish  the  neces- 
sity of  alms-giving ;  to  relieve  the  suffering,  even  of  the 
idle  and  vicious ;  but  at  the  same  time  to  remove  the  causes 
of  suffering. 

"  It  is  plain  that,  to  relieve  the  poor  effectually,  we  must 
do  away  the  causes  of  the  poverty  ;  to  give  an  idle  and 
wasteful  family  a  barrel  of  flour  will  not  provide  them  with 
bread  for  more  than  a  few  weeks,  and  if  in  habits  of  in- 
temperance, much  of  it  will  be  sold  at  half  price  for  whis- 
key. But  by  any  means  do  away  the  habit  of  waste,  idle- 
ness, and  drinking,  and  you  truly  relieve  that  family.  In 
order,  however,  to  do  any  thing  toward  curing  evil  habits,  it 
is  necessary  to  become  well  acquainted  with  those  having 
them,  to  see  them  frequently,  and  to  keep  up  a  continued 
connection  with  them.  As  charity  is  often  given,  —  by 
chance  visiting,  a  little  here  and  a  little  there,  no  perma- 
nent relations  being  established  between  the  giver  and  the 


118  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

receivers,  —  no  opportunity  is  allowed  for  the  exertion  of  that 
influence  which  may  do  away  the  causes  of  poverty.  Nay, 
such  charity  too  often  weakens  the  feeling  of  independence, 
leads  the  receiver  to  look  to  others  for  support,  and,  as  the 
same  kind  hand  is  not  again  extended,  causes  applications 
to  others,  the  habits  of  begging,  deceit,  imposition,  and  evil. 

"  One  great  purpose  which  we  have  in  view  is,  therefore, 
to  establish  permanent  relations  with  those  whom  we  assist, 
to  become  so  acquainted  with  them  as  to  prevent  deception, 
to  continue  to  assist  and  advise  them  the  year  round,  and  to 
bring  them  within  those  educational  and  religious  influences 
by  which  alone  their  dependence  can  be  prevented  from 
producing  evil  results. 

"  We  also  wish  to  assist  those  in  need  by  finding  work  for 
them  ;  and  whenever  we  can  do  this,  we  deem  it  a  far  better 
charity  than  any  form  of  alms-giving.  We  would,  indeed, 
ask  the  friends  of  right,  and  all  kind  hearts,  to  economize 
last  of  all  in  these  hard  times  by  taking  their  work  from  the 
poor.  One  dollar  paid  for  work  done  is  worth  two  given  ; 
better,  then,  give  nothing,  than  do  your  own  work  and  give 
every  week.  We  would  indeed  ask  how  the  Christian  can 
justly  economize  by  taking  the  means  of  support  from  a  fel- 
low man  or  woman,  instead  of  giving  up  some  of  his  or  her 
own  luxuries  ?  Is  it  right,  just,  to  use  our  comforts,  and 
withdraw  our  work  from  those  who  need  it,  when  times  re- 
quire that  we  must  give  up  those  comforts,  or  do  our  own 
work  ?  It  may  at  first  be  thought  too  much  to  require  men 
to  abandon  their  comforts  for  the  sake  of  their  neighbours; 
but  if  a  man's  neighbour  is  drowning,  is  he  justified  in  letting 
him  drown  because  he  must  plunge  into  cold  water  to  save 
him  ?  If  a  man's  neighbour  is  starving,  is  he  justified  in 
letting  him  starve  because  he  must  give  up  coffee  or  wear 
homespun  in  order  to  save  him  ? 

"  Our  two  chief  objects  have  been,  therefore,  first  to  form 
such  connections  with  the  poor  as  will  enable  us,  in  some 


MANHOOD.  119 

degree  at  least,  to  withdraw  them  and  their  children  from 
evil  associations,  and  to  combine  immediate  physical  relief 
with  continued  moral  relief;  and  second,  to  find  those  in 
need  employment.  We  hope,  also,  that  our  office  may  be 
the  means  of  uniting  those  engaged  in  benevolent  action, 
and,  through  such  a  union,  of  preventing  a  portion  of  that 
imposition  which  now  discourages  so  many  who  would  other- 
wise be  foremost  in  kind  works. 

"  We  have  since  October  received  contributions  from 
seventy-two  sources,  mostly  without  solicitation.  To  all 
of  these  we  would  now  return  thanks  in  the  name  of  those 
who  have  been  relieved  through  their  contributions.  We 
have  received  money,  flour,  clothing,  groceries  of  all  kinds, 
wood,  coal,  books,  bread,  &c.,  &c.  The  names  of  the  indi- 
vidual givers  we  do  not  publish,  as  we  do  not  suppose  any 
of  them  to  desire  it.  To  the  sewing-societies,  who  have 
kept  our  wardrobe  filled  ;  to  the  choir  and  people  of  the 
New  Jerusalem  Temple,  from  whose  concert  we  received 
one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  dollars  ;  to  the  directors  of  the 
ball  at  the  Theatre,  from  which  we  received  fifty  dollars  ;  and 
to  those  merchants  on  Main  Street,  who  sent  us  a  Christmas 
gift  of  forty-six  dollars,  we  may  refer  without  impropriety, 
and  would  thank  them  for  their  kindness. 

"  These  various  contributions  have  been  distributed  among 
two  hundred  and  sixteen  families  ;  some  of  whom  have  re- 
ceived very  slight  assistance,  while  others  have  been  helped 
through  the  winter.  Wood  or  coal  has  been  sent  to  about 
seventy  families,  to  several  of  them  many  times.  Clothing 
has  been  given  to  more  than  one  hundred.  One  hundred 
and  sixteen  pairs  of  shoes  have  been  given,  mostly  to  children 
to  enable  them  to  go  to  school.  The  rent  of  twenty  or 
twenty-five  families  has  been  paid  in  whole  or  in  part. 
Flour,  potatoes,  tea,  coffee,  candles,  soap,  rice,  sugar,  and 
many  other  articles,  have  been  provided  for  nearly  two  hun- 
dred families. 


120  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  All  the  families  assisted  have  been  visited  by  us,  with  a 
few  exceptions  where  they  were  brought  to  us  by  friends 
who  had  visited  them.  To  none  of  them  has  money  been 
given,  the  articles  needed  being  alsvays  supplied. 

"  In  addition  to  the  above,  we  have  paid  about  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  dollars  for  such  purposes  as  the  following: 
nursing  the  sick,  sending  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind  children 
to  Columbus,  sending  poor  families  to  their  relatives,  &c.,  &c. 

"  Thus,  during  the  past  winter,  we  have  tried  in  some  de- 
gree to  attain  our  ends.  One  of  us  (Mr.  Blake)  will  soon 
leave  the  city,  the  other  will  remain,  and  attempt  in  the 
course  of  the  coming  summer  so  to  systematize  our  infor- 
mation that  he  may  be  enabled  next  winter  to  act  more 
effectually;  and  hoping  by  that  time  to  bring  about  a  more 
perfect  union  among  the  friends  of  the  poor,  he  trusts  with 
their  aid  to  be  able  next  year  to  do  far  more  good  than  we 
have  been  able  to  do  during  the  present. 

"  The  office,  during  the  summer,  (i.  e.  from  May  1st 
to  October  1st,)  will  be  open  from  12  A.  M.  to  1  P.  M. 
every  day.  The  tenant  wishes  it  to  be  considered  free  to  all 
friends  of  the  poor,  city  missionaries,  &c.,  at  all  hours,  for 
all  purposes  of  a  general  nature,  and  would  invite  all  such 
to  use  it  freely. 

"  JAMES  H.  PERKINS, 
ALFRED  BLAKE. 

"  April  14/A,  1840." 

The  liberality,  open-handed,  though  discreet,  which 
Mr.  Perkins  manifested  throughout  his  ministry  can 
never  be  fitly  described,  for  it  was  known  only  to  his 
beneficiaries.  But  in  a  letter  to  his  wife,  confessing  his 
inability  to  make  or  hoard  wealth,  with  a  few  touches  he 
portrays  what  every  friend  knew  to  be  his  characteris- 
tic, as  exhibited  in  daily  walks.  "  Heaven  grant  I  may 
always  have  the  health  to  work  with  and  for  you,  dear 


MANHOOD.  121 

S. ;   for  I  am  a  poor  hand, — and  I  am  thankful  it  is 
so,  —  a  very  poor  hand,  at  making  money.     I  say  I  am 
thankful,    because   I   would   not   for   the  wealth   of   the 
world  have  my  mind   cramped  and  narrowed  down   to 
the    dimensions    of  a   money-maker's.     May   the   same 
spirit  ever  be  mine   that  now  is,  —  a  spirit  that  desires 
nothing  more  than  independence  of  others  ;   and,  while 
that  is  secured,  is  willing  to  divide  its  last  dollar  with  a 
neighbour.      This   is  my  instinct,  and   therefore   I   can 
claim  no  particle  of  merit  for  my  prodigality,  as  some 
would  call  it  ;  but  I  trust  the  instinct  will  remain."    And 
after  his  death,  one  of  his  grateful  friends  thus  wrote  :  — 
"  One  word  I  would  add   on  my  pecuniary  indebtedness 
to  Mr.  Perkins,  although,  in  his  great  kindness,  he  has 
repeatedly  told  me  'not  to  think  of  it.'     I  find  in  my 
memoranda  a  balance  of  $63.92  due  to  him.     He  was 
truly  the  good  Samaritan  to  me  ;  he  found  me  buried  by 
many  misfortunes,  at  a  season  of  destitution,  with  seven 
small  children  to  support  ;  and  whilst  unable  to  procure 
me  any  remunerative  employment,  he  invited  me  with  a 
brotherly  unction  '  to  call  on  him  and  he  would   share 
with  me  '  !     The  mere  money  may  yet  be  repaid,  —  the 
heart's  obligations,  never  !  "     Finally,  Mr.  Bushnell  thus 
bears  his  affectionate  testimony  to  the  devoted  labors  of 
his   friend:  —  "Previous   to   my  connection   with  Mr. 
Perkins  in  the  Relief  Union,  my  acquaintance  with  him 
had  been  only  by  reputation,  as  a  distinguished  scholar, 
philanthropist,  and  preacher.      But  when  I  became  asso- 
ciated with  him  in  this  great  and  good  work  of  Christian 
charity  and  benevolence,  —  when  I  witnessed  his  self- 
denying  labors  and  efforts  among  the  poor,  the  friendless, 
and  the  wretched,  —  my  previous  esteem  and  high  regard 
were  increased  almost  to  veneration.     I  loved  his  very 
VOL.  i.  11 


122  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

step,  as  I  heard  it  approaching,  and  his  voice  to  me  was 
music.  Never  had  I  witnessed  a  more  perfect  exempli- 
fication of  Gospel  benevolence  as  explained  in  the  New 
Testament  by  our  great  Pattern  and  Guide,  than  in  the 
character  of  Mr.  Perkins." 

The  Cincinnati  Columbian  well  sums  up  the  history 
of  his  benevolent  labors  :  — 

"  In  the  early  years  of  his  clerical  career,  Mr.  Perkins 
acted  in  a  manner  as  Minister  at  Large  for  the  city,  in 
which  capacity  he  visited  personally  among  the  poor  and 
needy  in  all  parts  of  the  town,  and  became  the  almoner  of 
many  of  the  good  of  all  religious  persuasions.  \Vhilc  en- 
gaged in  these  duties,  his  early  business  training  came  op- 
portunely to  his  aid.  He  opened  an  office,  in  which  he  kept 
a  register  of  the  names  of  all  applicants  for  either  work  or 
assistance,  and,  before  dispensing  to  them  the  charities  with 
which  he  was  intrusted,  visited  them  at  the  places  of  their 
residence,  and  ascertained  whatever  he  could  as  to  their  cir- 
cumstances and  characters.  He  rarely  gave  money,  except 
in  small  amounts  for  the  immediate  relief  of  hunger  or  sick- 
ness. He  distributed  clothing  only  where  there  was  real 
nakedness,  to  shut  out  cold  for  the  time,  or  ease  the  sense  of 
manifest  shame.  He  gave  out  food  where  he  found  it  was 
needed  to  stop  the  gnawings  of  hunger,  but  only  in  limited 
quantities,  as  necessity  demanded.  LABOR  was  his  gift, 
whenever  it  would  be  accepted  by  the  needy  and  could  be 
properly  performed,  and  in  order  to  supply  this,  he  finally 
opened  a  regular  intelligence  office,  from  which  he  supplied 
widows  with  needle-work,  servants  with  places,  and  day- 
laborers  with  such  employment  as  he  could  obtain  for  them. 

"  Out  of  this  beginning  a  few  years  afterwards  grew  that 
comprehensive  charity,  the  Cincinnati  Relief  Union,  of 
which  Mr.  Perkins  was  President  from  its  organization  to 
the  time  of  his  death.  His  experience  as  a  visitor  among 


MANHOOD.  123 

the  poor  and  the  degraded  had  taught  him  the  necessity  of 
an  association  such  as  this  ;  and  he  worked  with  all  his 
might  and  all  his  patience  to  build  it  up,  to  sustain  it,  and  to 
make  it  useful  in  finding  out  and  relieving  virtuous  want. 
In  his  last  sermon  to  his  congregation,  —  preached  the  Sab- 
bath before  his  death, —  Mr.  Perkins  presented  anew  the 
claims  of  this  benevolent  society,  and  gave  notice  that  it  was 
then  in  the  immediate  want  of  funds.  He  stated  that  it  was 
of  the  first  necessity  that  its  excellent  agent  should  be  re- 
tained in  his  place,  without  whom  its  plans  of  relief  would 
come  to  naught.  He  said  that,  for  the  period  of  the  next 
three  months,  which  would  be  the  hardest  part  of  the  winter 
upon  the  poor,  this  would  require  but  $125.  And  this  sum, 
he  remarked,  he  should  be  pleased  to  have  his  congregation 
assist  him  to  raise  ;  but  whether  they  assisted  or  not,  it 
should  be  raised,  for  he  had  determined  to  retain  the  agent 
for  this  length  of  time,  if  it  had  to  be  done  out  of  means  of 
his  own. 

"  It  was  chiefly  through  the  exertions  of  Mr.  Perkins,  en- 
gaged with  a  few  kindred  spirits,  that  the  condition  of  the 
county  jails  of  Ohio  was  investigated  and  reported  upon  sev- 
eral years  ago,  and  some  improvements  effected  in  their 
sanitary  regulations.  And  to  his  wisdom  and  perseverance 
is  this  community  indebted,  as  much  at  least  as  to  those  of 
any  other  man,  for  the  scheme  of  Houses  of  Refuge  and 
Correction,  which  are  soon  to  commence  their  useful  ser- 
vices, and  also  of  the  house  for  the  confinement  and  employ- 
ment of  juvenile  offenders,  now  nearly  erected,  two  miles 
north  of  the  city. 

"  But  there  have  been  few  projects  of  a  wise,  Christian 
benevolence,  indeed,  in  this  city,  for  the  past  twelve  or  fif- 
teen years,  that  have  not  had  the  aid  of  his  intellect,  his 
heart,  and  his  physical  labor.  To  thousands  of  cheerless 
hearts  he  has  carried  the  warmth  of  his  own  soul ;  to  thou- 
sands of  dark  abodes,  the  light  of  hope  and  religion.  He 


124  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

has  ministered  to  the  sick  and  sorrowing  ;  lie  has  fed  the 
hungry,  and  clothed  the  naked  ;  he  has  visited  the  widow 
and  the  orphan  in  their  aflliction." 

What  is  here  said  in  regard  to  Mr.  Perkins's  services 
in  promoting  prison  reform  is  strictly  true  ;  for  many 
friends  must  remember  the  private  influences  which,  in 
1833,  gave  the  first  impulse  to  that  movement  in  Cincin- 
nati and  Ohio.  Judges  Lane,  Este,  and  Reid,  Mayor 
Spencer,  Messrs.  William  Greene  and  J.  C.  Vaughan 
of  the  legal  profession,  and  Messrs.  Phillips,  Martin, 
and  other  energetic  and  benevolent  men  among  the  me- 
chanics, took  the  lead  in  it  ;  meetings  were  called,  laws 
drafted,  presented,  and  passed  ;  plans  were  set  on  foot 
for  inspecting  the  county  prisons,  and  erecting  new  build- 
ings on  an  improved  model  ;  and  finally,  though  the 
plans  adopted  fell  far  short  of  Mr.  Perkins's  ideal,  the 
work  of  converting  the  hells  of  convict  torture  into  pur- 
gatories at  least  of  penitence  was  fairly  begun.  During 
the  protracted  efforts  needed  to  keep  alive  public  atten- 
tion, to  collect  funds,  and  direct  legislative  action,  Mr. 
Perkins  used  every  occasion  to  promote  this  cause  of 
just  humanity.  He  did  not  make  himself  prominent,  but, 
as  was  his  habit,  acted  through  others  ;  yet  very  much 
owing  to  his  wise  suggestions  and  patient  exertions  were 
these  great  measures  successfully  carried  through. 

His  views  in  regard  to  prison  discipline  and  the  refor- 
mation of  the  young  may  be  learned  in  part  from  the 
following  paper  :  — 

"  In  the  month  of  December,  1838,  a  meeting  of  the  me- 
chanics of  Cincinnati  was  called  at  the  Court-House,  to  con- 
sider the  present  system  pursued  in  Ohio  with  regard  to 
the  labor  of  penitentiary  convicts.  This  system  is  known 


MANHOOD.  125 

as  the  '  Farming  System,'  and  is  marked  by  this  feature,  — 
that  the  labor  of  the  convicts  is  let  out  by  the  State  to  con- 
tractors, who  pay  so  much  a  day  for  every  man's  labor  ;  by 
means  of  this  labor  they  make  any  articles  they  please  at 
much  less  cost  than  the  common  manufacturer,  as  they  pay 
less  than  half  the  usual  wages,  and  therefore  are  enabled  to 
undersell  the  common  manufacturer.  At  the  meeting  held 
in  pursuance  of  the  call  above  referred  to,  it  was  stated,  that 
these  contractors  pursued  the  plan  of  producing  articles  of 
quite  limited  consumption,  of  which  they  could  obtain  the 
monopoly  by  underselling  the  regular  producers,  and  so 
command  the  market.  In  this  way,  it  was  said,  more  than 
one  manufacturer  had  been  ruined,  and  the  mechanics  were 
called  on  to  remonstrate  against  so  unjust  a  system. 

"  Late  in  the  next  month  another  meeting  was  called 
upon  the. same  subject ;  strong  resolutions  were  passed,  and 
a  memorial  prepared  to  present  to  the  Legislature  ;  and  the 
general  penitentiary  system  being  brought  into  discussion 
incidentally,  the  meeting  was  adjourned,  and  a  committee 
chosen  to  report  upon  the  propriety  of  teaching  mechanical 
labors  in  the  penitentiary  upon  any  system.  The  resolutions 
offered  by  this  committee  were  discussed  during  several 
successive  Saturday  evenings,  and  the  whole  subject  of  pris- 
on discipline  was  thrown  open.  In  the  course  of  these  dis- 
cussions the  following  report  was  made  :  — 

" '  In  old  times,  when  a  man  wronged  society  he  was 
killed,  whipped,  maimed,  branded,  or  exposed  in  the  pillory. 
Punishment  was  then  looked  on  as,  in  a  great  degree,  ven- 
geance. In  the  course  of  time  the  views  of  punishment 
changed,  and  man  came  to  think  that  criminals  should  suffer 
in  order  that  society  might  be  protected,  not  that  it  might 
be  avenged.  Thinking  thus,  and  believing  the  whipping 
and  exposure  then  practised  to  be  little  calculated  to  protect 
society  or  help  the  criminal,  the  Friends  or  Quakers  of 
Pennsylvania  proposed  to  substitute  imprisonment  in  the 
11* 


126  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

place  of  death  and  other  direct  bodily  inflictions.  The  first 
movement  of  those  excellent  men  on  this  subject  was  about 
the  beginning  of  the  Revolution,  during  the  very  years  in 
which  John  Howard  began  his  labors  of  mercy  ;  but  owing 
to  the  condition  of  the  United  Colonies  at  that  time,  nothing 
was  done,  and  even  after  the  Revolution,  and  before  the 
adoption  of  the  Constitution,  three  years  passed  before  those 
who  wished  to  call  the  public  eye  to  the  state  of  the  criminal 
law  succeeded  in  doing  so ;  they  did  succeed  at  last,  how- 
ever, and  in  1786  a  reform  began  in  Pennsylvania,  by  which 
the  old  code  of  stripes  and  torture  was  done  away.  From 
Pennsylvania  Ohio  borrowed  the  great  features  of  her  crim- 
inal laws,  and  to  that  we  owe  it  that  her  statute-book  is  not 
defaced  by  provisions  which  still  stain  those  of  many  of  her 
sister  States.  In  Connecticut,  Massachusetts,  and  Rhode 
Island,  the  use  of  the  pillory,  the  whip,  and  the  maiming- 
knife  were  authorized  by  law  as  late  as  1833  ;  and  in  Dela- 
ware at  that  time  poisoning  was  punished  by  a  fine  of  ten 
dollars,  an  hour's  exhibition  in  the  pillory,  sixty  stripes  well 
laid  on,  four  years  in  prison,  and  public  sale  into  slavery  for 
fourteen  years.*  But  in  Pennsylvania,  as  we  have  said, 
reform  began  in  1786,  and  the  penitentiary  system  was 
commenced  by  the  establishment  of  the  Walnut  Street  pris- 
on. The  idea  in  founding  this  prison  seems  to  have  been 
this,  —  to  protect  society  by  confining  the  criminal,  and  to  re- 
form as  far  as  possible  the  criminal  himself,  so  that  he  might 
not  be  criminal  again  as  soon  as  free.  The  idea  we  think  a 
noble  and  true  one,  uniting  policy  and  benevolence  ;  but  the 
execution  of  it  was  most  faulty,  for  numbers  were  placed 
together,  and  unrestrained  communion  allowed.  The  conse- 
quence of  this  was,  that  the  young  and  comparatively  inno- 
cent were  utterly  depraved  by  intimate  connection  with  the 

*  Beaumont  and  De  Tocqueville  on  the  Penitentiary  System  of  the 
United  States.     Trans.,  p.  16. 


MANHOOD.  127 

vile  and  hardened.  It  was  hoped  that  this  consequence 
might  be  avoided  by  classifying  the  prisoners,  placing  to- 
gether those  of  equal  criminality  ;  but  this  was  soon  proved 
to  be  impracticable,  for  there  was  no  guage  by  which  to 
know  the  souls  of  men.  Some,  also,  were  placed  in  soli- 
tary confinement,  but  they  were  left  unemployed.  The 
Pennsylvania  system,  with  all  its  defects,  was  copied  in 
1797  by  New  York  and  New  Jersey,  and  soon  after  by 
Massachusetts,  Connecticut,  and  all  the  other  States  ;  the  old 
punishments  fell  into  disuse,  and  the  State  prisons  were 
looked  to  with  hope  and  joy.  But  it  was  soon  clear  that 
they  would  never  bring  about  a  millennium  ;  indeed,  there 
was  every  reason  to  think  that  they  were  schools  of  vice, 
producing  evil,  and  little  or  nothing  else. 

'"This  state  of  things  led  to  new  efforts  in  1816  and  1817. 
In  the  former  year  the  Auburn  prison  was  begun  in  New 
York ;  in  this,  prisoners  were  to  be  placed  two  in  each  cell, 
and  those  who  were  vyorst  were  to  be  confined  in  solitude 
without  work.  In  1817  Pennsylvania  undertook  the  peniten- 
tiary at  Pittsburg,  where  each  prisoner  was  to  be  confined 
in  solitude  without  work.  Both  of  these  prisons  failed  of 
success  ;  that  at  Pittsburg,  because  so  built  as  to  enable  the 
prisoners  to  converse  with  perfect  freedom,  though  not  see- 
ing one  another ;  that  at  Auburn,  because,  where  two  were 
put  together,  as  much,  or  more,  evil  ensued  as  if  twenty  had 
been,  and  those  who  were  placed  in  solitary  confinement  with- 
out work  sickened,  became  insane,  and  committed  suicide. 

"  '  Two  modes  of  imprisonment  had  now  been  tried,  — 

"  '  1.  That  by  which  many  were  placed  together,  to  work 
in  common  and  communicate  freely. 

"  '  2.  That  by  which  each  was  placed  by  himself  in  idle- 
ness. 

'"Both  had  failed.  These  failures  led  to  the  adoption  of 
two  new  systems  ;  that  known  as  the  Auburn,  because  tried 
there  first,  after  the  failure  just  spoken  of;  the  other  known 
as  the  Philadelphia  system. 


128  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  '  The  Auburn  plan  arose  in  1824,  but  who  originated  it 
is  not  certainly  known.  Its  two  great  features  are  solitary 
confinement  at  night,  and  labor  in  common,  but  without 
communication  through  the  day.  The  Philadelphia  system 
is  marked  by  solitary  confinement  day  and  night,  with  labor. 
This  went  into  operation  in  1829. 

"  '  Such  is  an  outline  of  the  history  of  the  American  peni- 
tentiary system,  and  this  history  has  shown  two  things  most 
clearly  ;  the  one,  that  prisoners  must  not  communicate,  and 
the  other,  that  they  must  be  kept  employed.  Should  it  be 
asked  whether  there  has  been  any  change  effected  by  stop- 
ping communication  between  prisoners,  and  keeping  them 
at  labor,  we  answer,  the  change  has  been  very  great.  In 
the  Walnut  Street  prison  in  Philadelphia,  such  was  the  disci- 
pline, that,  when  the  first  sermon  was  preached  there,  it  was 
thought  needful  to  draw  up  the  prisoners  in  a  solid  column 
in  front  of  the  preacher,  by  whose  side  was  a  loaded  cannon, 
and  a  man  with  a  lighted  match.*  Under  the  new  system 
at  Singsing,  a  thousand  men  work  unfettered  at  an  open 
quarry,  with  but  thirty  keepers  to  control  them.t  In  the  old 
Philadelphia  prison,  the  keeper  kept  spirits  to  sell  to  the  con- 
victs. Under  the  new  system,  water  and  coffee  alone  are  ever 
used  by  them.  In  the  Massachusetts  State  prison,  so  late  as 
1825,  the  prisoners  were  leagued  with  rogues  without,  from 
whom  they  received  bank-bills  which  they  altered  from  1's 
to  10's,  and  from  2's  to  20's.  They  also  made  false  keys 
for  their  comrades  without,  and  divided  the  profits. f  Nor 
if  the  influence  of  the  new  system  less  marked,  by  the  fad 
that,  whereas  under  the  old  form  a  third  to  a  quarter  of 
those  who  left  the  prison  returned  again,  under  the  new  not 
more  than  one  twelfth  or  fifteenth  part  come  back.§  In 

*  Ch.  Ex.,  III.  207. 

t  Beaumont  and  De  Tocqueville,  p.  26. 

t  Ch.  Ex,  III.  210. 

§  N.  Y.  Report,  1828,  p.  62.  — Ch.  Ex.,  March,  1839. 


MANHOOD.  129 

New  York,  some  years  since,  pains  were  taken  to  trace  a 
number  of  those  who  had  left  Auburn,  and  from  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  who  were  traced,  one  hundred  and  twelve 
had  become  good  citizens,  and  only  twenty-six  remained  de- 
cidedly untrustworthy.* 

"  '  But  the  great  good  of  the  new  system  is  this,  that  it  pre- 
vents the  young,  who  are  led  into  crime,  from  becoming 
utterly  ruined  while  in  confinement.  Leaving  this  point, 
however,  for  the  present,  we  turn  to  the  inquiry,  What  spe- 
cies of  labor  shall  the  convict  be  employed  on  ?  Keeping 
in  mind  that  one  great  end  is  to  prevent  the  convict  from 
becoming  criminal  again  when  free,  we  answer  that  it  must 
be,  if  possible,  a  species  that  will  support  him  when  he 
leaves  prison,  and  also  one  that  will  not  necessarily  bring 
him  often  into  connection  with  other  freed  criminals ;  for  it 
is  found  that  most  of  those  who  go  back  to  prison  a  second 
time  have  fallen  in  with  fellow-convicts  while  at  large. 

"  '  Useless  labor,  such  as  that  of  the  treadmill,  is  therefore 
to  be  rejected,  —  for  it  will  not  feed  him.  Stone-breaking, 
and  employments  which  cause  a  wandering  life,  and  which 
are  liable  to  be  monopolized  by  convicts,  are  also  objection- 
able ;  more  than  half  the  new  criminals  have  led  such  wan- 
dering lives,  and  the  collecting  into  bands  of  those  known  to 
each  other  as  criminals  is  much  to  be  feared. 

"  '  The  professions  we  think  out  of  the  question,  because 
the  professional  man  more  than  any  other  asks  for  confi- 
dence, and  none  would  confide  either  life  or  property  to 
those  fresh  from  prison.  We  might  employ  one  of  whom 
we  know  nothing  good  to  make  us  a  pair  of  shoes,  though 
We  should  not  employ  him  as  a  physician  or  attorney. 

"  '  We  find,  then,  but  two  classes  of  labor  to  which  the  con- 
vict can  devote  himself,  the  agricultural  and  the  mechanical. 
Were  it  possible  to  employ  him  in  agriculture  while  a  pris- 

*  N.  Y.  Report,  1828,  pp.  70,  72. 


130  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

oner,  we  should  think  it  by  far  the  best  life  for  him  to  lead, 
it  being  found  that  the  freed  prisoner  who  goes  into  the  coun- 
try is  far  less  likely  to  return  to  prison  than  the  one  who 
goes  to  the  city.  Nor  do  we  say  that  the  prisoner  cannot  be 
employed  in  agriculture,  though  we  see  no  means  by  which 
he  may  be. 

"  '  In  every  branch  of  mechanical  labor,  however,  he  may 
easily  be  taught  :  and  having  learned  any  one,  he  may  live 
thereby  when  free,  may  reach  a  respectability  which  the 
stone-breaker  never  can,  and  will  not  be  thrown  into  many 
temptations,  and  with  many  associates,  that  the  wandering 
day-laborer  cannot  avoid. 

"  '  But  our  friends,  the  mechanics,  say  your  State-prison 
competition  will  ruin  us,  and  your  freed  convicts  will  dis- 
grace and  demoralize  us.  To  this  we  answer  by  asking,  if 
the  mechanics  of  Ohio  would  fear  the  competition  of  any 
other  five  hundred  men.  Were  it  proposed  to  save  five 
hundred  young  men  from  idleness,  vice,  and  the  penitentiary 
by  making  them  mechanics,  would  our  shoemakers,  carpen- 
ters, and  blacksmiths  ask  that  it  should  not  be  done,  because 
the  competition  would  be  ruinous  ?  We  cannot  for  a  mo- 
ment think  they  would,  and  yet  these  five  hundred  now  in 
prison  are  no  more  than  they  were  when  out  of  prison. 
The  truth  is,  that  the  competition  of  five  or  seven  hundred 
men  scattered  over  the  whole  field  of  mechanical  labor 
would  not  be  felt  in  Ohio,  were  the  products  of  their  labor 
sold  at  market  prices.  The  fear  of  competition  arises  from 
the  contracting  system  at  present  in  vogue. 

"'As  respects  disgrace  to,  and  injury  to  the  morals  of, 
the  mechanics,  we  think  they  will  see  the  danger  to  be  little. 
No  man  in  this  country  can  be  honored  or  disgraced  but  by 
his  own  acts  :  neither  blood,  nor  wealth,  nor  profession 
should  or  need  determine  the  honor  or  disgrace  of  an  Amer- 
ican ;  by  his  own  worth,  and  that  only,  must  he  stand. 

"  '  Believing  both  the  objections  urged  against  teaching  the 


MANHOOD.  131 

convict  mechanical  trades  to  be  unsound,  we  are  of  opinion 
that  he  may  be  taught  them  with  propriety  and  safety.  At 
the  same  time,  we  see  the  difficulties  connected  with  this  mat- 
ter, for  who  will  employ  the  freed  criminal  ?  We  see  great 
inducements  to  deception,  and  many  dangers  to  the  public, 
from  the  suspicion  with  which  he  is  always,  and  necessarily, 
regarded.  But  we  do  not  see  the  danger  less  in  one  direction 
than  another  from  this  source  ;  and  the  experience  of  the 
Auburn  prison  is  in  favor  of  the  teaching  of  mechanical 
labors. 

"  '  In  closing  this  report,  we  would  refer  to  three  points  of 
deep  interest  to  our  community. 

"  '  One  is  the  best  means  of  enabling  the  freed  convict  to 
get  a  livelihood.  Should  the  State  give  him  employment  ? 
Should  it  give  or  lease  him  land  ?  On  this  point  we  have 
nothing  to  offer. 

" '  The  second  point  is  the  propriety  of  having  houses 
where  those  arrested  on  suspicion,  and  witnesses  who  cannot 
give  security  for  their  appearance,  may  be  detained.  Such 
houses  of  detention  are  common  in  Europe,  but  the  first  ever 
built  in  this  country  has  but  just  gone  into  operation  :  it  is  in 
New  York.  The  propriety  of  such  places,  and  the  impro- 
priety of  sending  suspected  persons  to  jail,  are  clear  :  more 
than  a  fifth  part  of  those  arrested  are  not  convicted. 

"  ;  The  third  point  referred  to  is  one  which  we  would  par- 
ticularly ask  attention  to  :  it  is  the  need  we  have  of  a  HOUSE 
OF  REFUGE,  to  which  all  boys  and  girls  violating  the  law  may 
be  sent,  there  to  be  educated,  reformed,  and  made  worthy 
of  society,  and  saved  from  a  life  of  sin. 

"  '  The  first  institutions  of  this  kind  were  founded  in  Ger- 
many, by  individuals,  about  1813  ;  in  1S25,  one  was  formed 
in  New  York  by  a  society ;  Boston  founded  one  in  1826, 
and  Philadelphia  in  1828.  Fourteen  years  of  experience 
have  proved  these  institutions  to  be  most  valuable.  In  them 
boys  and  girls  of  from  seven  to  twenty-one  and  eighteen  are 


132  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

received  and  truly  reformed  ;  fifty  in  a  hundred  among  those 
who  have  left  them  are  known  to  be  industrious  and  up- 
right,—  not  five  of  whom  would  have  been  saved  from 
crimes  and  ruin  in  any  oilier  way,  so  far  as  can  be  judged. 

"  '  The  call  for  such  a  House  of  Refuge  in  Cincinnati  must 
be  known  to  all  those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  number 
of  offences  committed  here  by  the  young,  and  we  most  ear- 
nestly hope  that  this  meeting  will  see  fit  to  adopt  measures  to 
have  the  subject  fully  discussed  and  presented  to  the  public. 

" '  As  a  condensed  view  of  the  opinions  contained  in  this 
report,  we  offer  the  following  resolutions. 

"  '  1st.  Resolved,  That,  if  the  convict  can  be  employed  in 
agricultural  labor,  it  is  desirable  that  he  should  be. 

"  '  2d.  Resolved,  That  the  free  mechanic  need  not  fear  the 
competition  of  the  prisoner,  provided  the  State  do  her  duty  ; 
and  need  not  fear  disgrace  or  moral  injury,  provided  he  do 
his  own  duty. 

"  '  3d.  Resolved,  That  in  the  opinion  of  this  meeting  a 
House  of  Refuge  for  young  criminals  is  much  needed  in 
Cincinnati,  and  that  the  public  should  be  invited  to  consider 
the  propriety  of  founding  one. 

"  '  4th.  Resolved,  That,  for  the  purpose  last  named,  a  com- 
mittee of  nine  be  appointed  to  prepare  a  report  and  resolu- 
tions, and  to  call  a  meeting  when  and  where  they  see  good.' 

"  The  question  of  prison  discipline  from  first  to  last  is 
of  very  deep  interest  and  importance  to  us  all,  and  the  fact 
that  most  of  those  engaged  in  the  discussions  already  men- 
tioned were  mechanics  is  most  cheering.  If  such  men  will 
take  hold  of  such  questions  in  earnest,  and,  instead  of  suffer- 
ing lawyers  and  political  aspirants  to  use  them  as  puffing- 
posts  and  party  machinery,  will  consider  and  settle  them 
soberly  and  calmly,  we  may  hope  for  a  political  regenera- 
tion, almost. 

"The  question  of  prison  discipline  involves, — 

"  1st.  That   of  confining  and    trying  persons  suspected. 


MANHOOD.  133 

How  should  they  be  tried  ?  Publicly  or  privately  ?  How 
should  they  be  confined  ?  Surely  not  as  those  convicted  are. 
And  yet,  in  most  of  our  jails,  suspected  men,  and  boys,  and 
women  may  be  found,  whose  accommodations  will  not  com- 
pare with  those  of  the  convict.  In  Baltimore,  within  the  year, 
the  jail-prisoners  had  neither  leds  nor  changes  of  clothing. 
And  where  is  the  jail  that  is  what  it  should  be  ?  Here  in 
Cincinnati  we  now  have  a  'chain-gang1;  an  improvement 
upon  the  horrors  of  crowded  rooms  and  idleness,  perhaps, 
but  generally  destructive  of  the  criminal  who  is  put  upon  it. 
Why  do  we  not  have  labor  in  secret,  as  at  so  many  of  the 
Eastern  prisons  ?  and  why  no  House  of  Arrest  for  merely 
suspected  persons  ? 

"  2d.  The  question  involves  that  of  treating  the  young,  of 
houses  of  refuge  or  schools  of  moral  reform.  Upon  this 
we  say  nothing  now,  meaning  soon  to  give  a  whole  paper 
to  it. 

"  3d.  We  have  the  question  of  employing  grown  convicts 
in  agriculture.  Could  the  State  own  several  farms  with  a 
penitentiary  on  each  ?  Could  men  be  kept  at  such  work  in 
silence  and  safety  ?  This  question  is  full  of  interest,  and 
full  of  difficulty. 

"  4th.  The  great  problem  of  penitentiary  discipline  comes 
before  us  ;  namely,  to  provide  for  the  employment  of  the 
released  convicts.  To  look  at  the  present  system,  one  would 
say  that  ninety-nine  out  of  one  hundred  released  convicts 
would  be  criminal  again, —  must  be  criminal  again.  The 
man  leaves  the  prison  ;  a  suit  of  clothes,  five  dollars,  and 
plenty  of  advice  are  given  him,  and  what  else  has  he  ?  His 
limbs,  his  good  resolves,  his  wish  to  live  honestly.  True,  but 
he  is  known  at  Columbus  as  a  convict,  and  no  one  will  em- 
ploy him,  and  he  can  scarce  reach  any  other  place  where 
he  would  not  be  suspected  and  forced  to  deceive,  without 
resorting  to  wrong  means  of  support.  The  released  convict 
is  most  truly  a  criminal  in  the  market ;  the  first  buyer  that 

VOL.  i.  12 


134  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

offers,  the  first  rogue  that  will  give  him  bread  in  exchange 
for  evil  deeds,  may  buy  him  cheap,  for  he  must  sell  himself 
or  starve.  The  great  problem  for  us  of  this  day  to  solve  is, 
then,  we  think,  this, —  How  may  the  freed  convict  be  em- 
ployed so  as  to  relieve  him  of  the  necessity  of  deception  and 
crime,  and  enabfe  him  to  redeem  his  character? 

"  Is  this  plan  feasible  ?  Take  of  the  prisoner's  earnings 
enough  to  buy  a  small  tract  of  land,  put  him  upon  that  when 
free,  and  let  him  clear  and  cultivate  it  if  he  will,  on  these 
terms,  —  that  it  shall  be  his  if  he  remains  on  it  and  culti- 
vates it  for  ten  years,  and  if  he  do  not,  that  it  shall  then  re- 
main the  property  of  the  State. 

"  That  some  plan  must  be  adopted  is  clear,  if  we  wish 
the  penitentiary  system  to  work  reformation  of  life,  and 
unless  that  be  brought  about,  the  public  is  most  poorly  pro- 
tected." 

Warm  as  was  Mr.  Perkins's  private  sympathy  for  the 
suffering,  the  tempted,  and  debased,  and  faithful  as  he 
was  in  personal  ministrations  of  benevolence,  it  would 
be  doing  injustice  to  his  aims  not  to  view  these  labors  in 
connection  with  his  principles  of  CHRISTIAN  STATES- 
MANSHIP, in  the  largest  sense  of  those  words.  The 
prevention  and  relief  of  Pauperism,  the  reform  of  Crim- 
inals, were  to  him  but  branches  of  the  living  tree  of  Re- 
ligious Policy.  And  in  order  to  present  his  profound 
and  broad  convictions  of  social  duty,  —  which  were 
held  not  in  theory  only,  but  practically  fulfilled,  —  it  is 
right  to  quote  freely  from  his  writings.  Shall  not  the 
day  soon  come,  when,  in  all  our  communities,  leaders, 
parties,  and  people  shall  be  governed  by  like  sublime, 
yet  rational,  aspirations  for  a  heaven  on  earth  ? 

1836.      "WASHINGTON. —  Where   lay  the    greatness   of 


MANHOOD.  135 

George  Washington  ?  Men  of  every  land,  speakers  of 
every  tongue,  have  united  in  his  praise,  and  declared  him 
indeed  a  GREAT  MAN  :  why  was  this  ?  Not  because  of  his 
victories  ;  few  dream  of  placing  him,  as  a  soldier,  with  Na- 
poleon :  not  because  he  was  wiser,  as  a  statesman,  than 
all  others  ;  Burke  was  more  philosophic,  —  Fox  far  more  elo- 
quent,—  Pitt  had  more  energy  and  resource,  —  Canning 
more  learning  ;  and  yet  Washington  was  a  greater  man 
than  either.  Yea,  when  the  star  of  our  freedom  burned  but 
faintly,  and  the  most  hoping  hushed  their  fears,  —  even  then, 
when,  if  taken,  George  Washington  might  have  been  hung 
as  a  rebel,  —  he  was  a  greater  man  than  any  of  those  we 
have  named.  And  why  ?  Because  the  MAN  and  his  great- 
ness, differ  wholly  from  the  Soldier,  or  the  Statesman,  and 
their  greatness.  The  person  who,  as  a  warrior,  a  politician, 
a  writer,  an  orator,  is  greatest  in  the  land,  may,  as  a  man,  be 
among  the  least.  The  trade  of  life,  that  wherein  most  that 
are  marked  are  marked,  requires  one  power,  or  one  class 
of  powers,  full  and  great ;  but  the  great  man  is  he  whose 
powers  are  all  full,  —  who  eminently  lacks  nothing  in  the 
outline  of  his  character,  —  who,  as  a  whole,  most  resembles 
God.  That  one  may  be  a  great  Lawyer,  and  yet  break  half 
the  laws  of  God,  we  all  know  ;  but,  if  he  does  break  those 
laws,  he  is  not  a  great  Man  ;  for  he  lacks  much  in  the  out- 
line of  his  character  ;  he  does  not  resemble  God.  As  a 
lawyer,  a  being  of  this  world,  a  worm  that  may  die  to-mor- 
row, a  being  without  nobility  of  sentiment  or  purity  of  pur- 
pose, he  is  great ;  as  a  living  soul,  with  capacities  fitted 
for  an  eternal  life,  he  is  small  and  poor.  Which  is  of  most 
import,  the  lawyer  or  the  man  ?  Which  is  looked  up  to  by 
the  instinct  of  nature  and  the  word  of  God  ?  All  know,  if 
all  do  not  say,  the  man  ;  and  where,  as  in  Washington, 
greatness  as  a  man  has  been  made  prominent,  and  produced 
vast  effects,  the  world  unite  in  placing  it  before  all  profes- 
sional greatness.  George  Washington,  then,  was  peculiarly 


136  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

great,  because  he  was  great  throughout.  Moreover,  he  was 
professionally  great,  mainly  because  of  his  greatness  as  a 
man.  It  was  not  his  military  genius  that  made  him  muster 
of  our  forces;  he  had  not,  in  the  French  war,  shown  genius, 
but  he  had  shown  courage,  coolness,  modesty,  diligence, 
self-reliance,  humanity,  and  many  other  qualities  which 
belong  to  the  great  man,  be  his  calling  what  it  will.  And 
through  our  war,  it  was  not  the  commander,  but  the  man, 
George  Washington,  that  carried  us.  Had  his  virtues  been 
less  known,  and  his  character  as  a  man  less  relied  upon, 
the  army  would  have  melted  like  ice  ;  and  unity  of  purpose, 
council,  and  action  would  have  been  impossible.  And  as  a 
statesman  the  same  thing  is  true  ;  he  had  nothing  of  the  mere 
politician,  learned  in  human  weakness  and  folly, —  nothing 
of  the  professed  diplomatist,  who  would  use  men  as  puppets, 
—  in  him.  He  sat  in  the  council  as  a  man  dealing  with 
men.  It  was  not  the  wisdom  of  books,  of  experience,  or  the 
promptings  of  genius,  that  guided  him  ;  it  was  the  honest, 
heaven-born  excellence  of  his  own  heart,  more  than  a  match 
for  all  the  arts  of  a  Talleyrand." 

1836.  "  AGRARIANISM.  — There  is  an  outcry  of  '  Agra- 
rianism  '  abroad,  and  everywhere  we  see  the  workingmen, 
or  more  properly  the  hand-working  men,  gathering  numbers 
into  parties.  What  do  these  things  mean  ?  and  why  are 
they  ? 

"  By  Agrarianism  we  understand  sometimes  a  disposition, 
and  sometimes  a  system,  that  would  attack  the  present 
rights  of  property.  Not  content  with  forbidding  the  law  to 
aid  individuals  in  the  acquisition  of  wealth,  it  would  make 
it  strip  them  of  their  present  possessions,  and  prevent  future, 
acquisition. 

"  The  folly  and  iniquity  of  such  a  system  need  not  be 
pointed  out.  That  the  right  to  the  accumulations  of  indus- 
try, constituting  riches,  is  the  same  with  the  right  to  the  first 


MANHOOD.  137 

fruits  of  industry,  which  form  the  daily  bread  of  the  daily 
laborer,  is  self-evident.  There  never  has  been,  and  never 
can  be,  an  agrarian  community.  Those  Roman  laws  from 
which  we  take  the  name,  related,  not  to  private  property, 
but  to  the  public  domain,  as  Niebuhr  and  Savigny  have  fully 
shown ;  and  the  attempt  of  the  French  madmen  was,  as  a 
schoolboy  might  have  prophesied,  an  entire  failure.  Were 
all  men  good  Christians,  there  might  be  an  approach  made 
to  that  ideal  state  of  society  where  none  shall  be  very  rich, 
and  none  poverty-stricken ;  but  even  an  approximation  to 
this  state  must  result  from  individual  principle,  not  public 
law. 

"  A  perception  of  these  truths  has  prevented  any  impor- 
tant direct  manifestation  of  a  levelling  spirit  in  our  land,  but 
indirectly  the  jealousy  of  wealth  among  us  is  fully  visible. 
Without  being  the  advocate  of  either  party,  we  cannot  but 
see  in  the  support  given  by  the  people  to  the  administration, 
while  warring  upon  the  United  States  Bank,  an  evidence 
of  this  jealousy.  The  war,  then,  is  already  begun  ;  and, 
unless  the  cause  of  this  jealousy  is  removed,  it  will  go  on 
slowly,  but  certainly,  till  republicanism  crumbles  into  an- 
archy. 

"  And  what  is  its  cause  ? 

"  In  every  erroneous  system  there  is  a  germ  of  truth. 
No  creed,  however  monstrous,  but  rests  upon  some  reality. 
The  error,  like  the  fiery  beard  of  the  comet,  may  flame 
from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith,  and  fill  the  eye  of  the  looker- 
on,  but  somewhere  there  is  an  unseen  nucleus.  We  believe 
it  to  be  so  with  regard  to  agrarianism ;  we  believe  the  gen- 
eral feeling,  not  that  the  rights  of  industry  should  be  de- 
stroyed, but  that  something  is  wrong  with  regard  to  wealth, 
to  have  its  origin  in  the  rnisty  perception  of  a  great  truth, 
and  of  the  general  disregard  of  it.  We  believe  that  in  one 
point,  at  least,  the  state  of  society  in  our  country  is  opposed 
to  republicanism,  and  that  this  opposition  is  the  parent  of  that 
12* 


138  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

feeling  of  which  we  have  spoken  ;  a  feeling  far  more  wide- 
spread than  most  of  us  suppose,  swaying  many  who  would 
shrink  from  an  open  attack  upon  property. 

"  The  great  truth  referred  to  may  be  stated  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Miss  Sedgwick,  in  her  most  admirable  little  work, 
'  Home':  — '  Talent  and  worth  are  the  only  eternal  grounds 
of  distinction.  It  will  be  our  own  fault,  if  in  our  land  soci- 
ety, as  well  as  government,  is  not  organized  upon  a  new 
foundation.  Knowledge  and  goodness,  these  make  degrees 
in  heaven,  and  they  must  be  the  graduating  scale  of  a  true 
democracy.'  The  disregard  of  these  truths  we  look  upon 
as  not  only  keeping  us  back  in  our  national  growth,  but  as 
also  forming  the  root  of  the  great  prevalent  hostility  to  prop- 
erty ;  and  for  this  cause,  that  property,  in  the  place  of 
knowledge  and  goodness,  is  made  too  much  the  graduating 
scale  of  our  democracy.  This  the  moneyless  democrat  per- 
ceives ;  he  feels  himself  wronged,  and,  to  do  away  that 
wrong,  inclines  to,  if  he  does  not,  join  that  party  which 
would  destroy  the  cause  of  wrong-doing,  —  wealth. 

"  That  point  in  our  social  condition,  then,  (to  repeat  in 
another  form  what  we  last  said,)  which  we  think  at  variance 
with  republicanism  no  less  than  Christianity,  is  the  moral 
rank  and  influence  given  to  mere  wealth,  but  due  to  talent, 
education,  and  character.  A  dim  perception  of  this  vari- 
ance we  look  on  as  giving  rise  to  the  common  feeling  that 
something  is  wrong,  as  well  as  to  the  wish  of  the  agrarian 
to  cure  this  wrong  by  the  equalization  of  property. 

"  But  some  one  may  say,  that  wealth  is  desired  for  the 
luxuries  and  bodily  comforts  it  brings,  and  not  for  the  rank 
and  influence  given  its  possessor. 

"  As  this  objection  strikes  at  the  root  of  our  whole  argu- 
ment, we  must  consider  it  at  some  length. 

"  Let  the  reader  look  back  over  his  own  personal  experi- 
ence, and  then  inquire  whether,  among  the  money-seekers 
whom  he  has  known,  the  mass  have  been  moved  to  labor 


MANHOOD.  139 

by  the  hope  of  better  food  or  raiment,  as  a  means  of  sim- 
ple sensual  gratification,  or  in  the  expectation  that  known 
wealth,  costly  clothes,  and  fine  houses  would  increase  their 
influence  and  standing.  We  would  ask  him  to  say,  from 
his  own  observation,  if  the  bodily  comforts  of  the  rich 
exceed  those  of  the  independent  hand-worker.  Do  they 
not  rather  fall  short  of  his  ?  That  there  are  some,  mostly 
belonging  to  the  dissolute  and  needy,  that  desire  money  as  a 
means  to  sensual  pleasure,  is  undoubted  ;  and  probably  no 
poor  man  passes  through  life  without  wishing  for  wealth,  as 
giving  luxuries  ;  but  we  are  speaking  now  of  the  great  mass, 
and  of  the  permanent  object  for  which  they  labor,  not  of  a 
momentary  impulse. 

"  Again,  if  a  man  of  wealth  were  thrown  into  a  commu- 
nity of  true  Christians,  with  whom  wealth  was  no  passport  to 
rank  and  influence,  would  he  value  his  riches  ?  or  would  a 
poorer  man  of  the  world  envy  him  there,  as  he  would  in  the 
world  ? 

"  Again,  why  is  there  so  much  pomp  and  display  made 
with  money  ?  Why  are  not  the  rich  content  to  have  warm 
and  pleasant  houses,  and  soft  clothes,  and  to  eat  and  drink 
in  privacy  ?  Is  it  not  because  they  wish  to  have  their  wealth 
known  and  recognized  ?  And  why  is  this,  but  for  the  re- 
spect they  know  will  be  paid  to  it  ? 

"  There  is  a  fact  also  connected  with  the  hostility  to 
wealth  in  our  country,  which  may  give  us  some  light  ;  it  is 
this,  —  the  opposition  to  the  rich  is  not  made  by  all  those  not 
rich,  but  by  the  hand-working  men,  as  we  have  called  them. 
But  there  are  two  distinct  classes  beside  the  wealthy  ;  one 
consists  of  these  hand-workers,  and  the  other  of  clergymen, 
lawyers,  doctors,  and  writers,  many  of  whom  are  much 
poorer,  and  live  in  a  much  less  luxurious  state,  than  those 
mechanics  who  lead  the  working  party.  But  this  second 
class  have  no  hostility  to  wealth,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  discontented  spirits,  feel  no  jealousy  of  it.  Why  is 


140  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

this  ?  It  is  because  a  poor  lawyer  or  physician  ranks  higher 
than  a  printer  of  equal  education,  talent,  character,  and 
good-hreeding  ;  his  opinion  is  listened  to,  and  has  weight ; 
the  leaders  of  fashion  speak  with  him,  and  the  first  men  in 
the  community  receive  him  socially  as  an  equal.  But  the 
printer  has  equally  within  him  the  love  of  influence  ;  and 
when  he  sees  one  richer  than  himself  in  gold,  but  poorer 
in  all  knowledge  and  excellence,  received  with  favor  where 
he  dares  not  venture,  he  feels  wronged  ;  he  feels  that  he  is 
degraded,  while  the  other  merits  degradation.  Reason,  re- 
publicanism, Christianity,  all  assure  him  that  mere  money 
can  give  no  man  a  claim  to  respect  ;  but  finding  that  it 
does  give  that  claim  with  the  world,  he  either  goes  into  busi- 
ness to  become  rich  himself,  or  joins  one  of  the  professions 
(which  are  consequently  crowded),  or  cries  out  upon  this 
false  talisman  that  so  witches  men's  eyes. 

"  And  in  England,  at  this  moment,  against  whom  goes 
the  battle  ?  Against  the  aristocracy,  who  claim  rank  and 
power,  and  not  against  the  bankers  of  London.  Or  if  the 
rich  man  is  abhorred,  it  is  the  one  that  parades  his  wealth, 
and  lays  claim  to  distinction  and  standing, —  that  has  his 
chariot  and  outriders,  his  box  at  the  opera,  and  his  princely 
park  for  the  summer,  —  and  not  the  old  West  Indian,  that 
drinks  his  two  bottles  of  Madeira,  and  smokes  his  cigar 
among  the  dusky  piles  of  Bishopsgate  Street.  Each  may 
have  his  million,  but  he  is  envied  to  whom  the  world  looks 
up,  and  not  he  that  enjoys  himself  in  a  corner. 

"  And  in  France,  during  both  revolutions,  the  starving 
and  mad  mob,  while  engaged  in  sacking  palaces,  and  de- 
stroying the  marks  of  rank,  refused  to  take  the  booty  that 
lay  about  them. 

"  A  consideration  of  these  things  convinces  us  that  wealth 
is  desired  and  envied  by  strong  and  energetic  men,  not  as  a 
means  to  sensual  pleasure,  but  as  giving  a  claim  to  moral 
influence  and  standing. 


MANHOOD.  141 

"  We  now  come  to  the  inquiry,  why  this  is  not  a  just 
claim,  or  why  it  is  opposed  to  republicanism. 

"  The  idea  of  a  republic  is,  that  men  shall  be  esteemed 
according  to  their  merit.  Under  other  forms  of  government, 
birth,  wealth,  or  even  physical  power,  may  form  the  stand- 
ard of  rank  ;  in  a  republic  none  of  these  can  have  weight 
in  themselves.  Among  savages,  physical  power  is  merito- 
rious ;  in  their  view,  the  best  hunter  and  warrior  is  the  best 
man.  Among  the  semi-civilized,  where  education  exists, 
but  is  not  general,  birth  is  a  half-guarantee  of  a  good  educa- 
tion as  well  as  good  blood.  And  when  you  come  one  step 
nearer  our  present  condition,  wealth  affords  probable  evi- 
dence of  industry,  care,  and  moral  habits,  and  is  respected, 
not  for  itself,  but  as  proving  them.  But  in  the  perfectly 
civilized  state  it  is  not  evidence  of  these  things ;  neither 
does  birth  guarantee  superiority  of  education  ;  and  brute 
strength  ceases  to  be  merit,  save  in  the  eyes  of  the  brutish. 
Anew  standard  is  now  erected,  —  intellectual  power  and 
culture,  and  moral  character.  Such  is  the  law  of  republi- 
canism and  the  Christian  religion,  as  applied  to  social  rank. 
The  preeminence  of  wealth  is  also  anti-republican,  because 
in  a  republic  the  mass  rule,  but  in  no  land  can  the  mass  be 
wealthy.  Wherever  civilization  prevails,  however,  the  love 
of  influence  is  the  ruling  passion.  If,  therefore,  wealth  have 
preeminence,  the  mass  will  be  against  it;  but  the  end  of 
government  is  peace,  whereas  a  republic  where  wealth 
gives  influence  leads  to  war  ;  the  two  things  are  therefore 
in  opposition. 

"  And  what  is  the  mistake  which  shuts  out  the  great  class 
of  hand-working  men  from  cultivated  society  ? 

"  It  is  this  :  manual  labor  is  taken  as  evidence  of  a  want 
of  education  at  least,  while  wealth  and  intellectual  labor  are 
received  as  proofs  of  the  contrary. 

"  In  this  statement  we  believe  the  cause  of  the  whole 
difficulty  will  be  found.  Because  in  Europe  bodily  labor, 


142  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

ignorance,  and  vulgarity  have  gone  so  much  together,  we 
think  them  blood  relations,  and  suppose  the  presence  of  the 
first  cannot  but  bring  in  the  two  last.  Instead  of  asking 
whether  this  printer  or  that  cabinet-maker  is  as  well  educated 
and  behaved,  possesses  as  much  talent  and  as  high  a  char- 
acter, as  the  lawyer  or  physician  next  door,  we  take  it  for 
granted  that  he  does  not,  though  every  body  knows  that  free 
schools,  manual-labor  colleges,  and  mechanics'  institutes  are 
giving  our  mechanics  all  needful  learning  ;  and  as  to  man- 
ners, we  doubt  much  if  the  court-house  be  a  better  school 
than  the  workshop.  The  presumption  against  farmers  is 
going  by,  in  consequence  of  the  good  sense  of  many  young 
men  of  family  and  wealth,  who  have  taken  the  plough  into 
their  own  hands  ;  but  against  mechanics  the  prejudice  re- 
mains as  of  old. 

"  We  have  now  pointed  to  the  spot  in  our  social  condi- 
tion where  we  think  there  is  something  at  variance  with 
republicanism.  I  have  shown  in  what  that  variance  is,  and 
why  it  is  ;  we  now  come  to  the  question,  Can  it  be  rem- 
edied ? 

"  The  evil  is,  that  an  undue  rank  is  assigned  to  wealth  ; 
and  also,  that  an  undue  importance  is  assigned  to  employ- 
ments;  to  both  of  which  this  common  characteristic  be- 
longs, —  that  by  the  mass  the  profession  or  occupation  is 
too  much  thought  of,  the  individual  too  little. 

"  With  respect  to  these  evils,  one  of  three  courses  must  be 
adopted  ;  they  must  either  be  left  to  run,  as  many  would 
say,  their  natural  course, —  though  we  do  not  think  the  sins 
of  artificial  life  ought  to  be  thus  put  upon  poor  nature  ;  or 
wealth  must  be  equalized  ;  or  men  must  be  taught  not  to 
respect  mere  wealth  or  place,  but  to  consider  the  intellect, 
education,  and  character  of  each  individual,  known  by  ex- 
amination, and  not  by  inference  from  his  business,  as  giving 
him  a  claim  to  social  influence  and  standing. 

"  Which  course  should  be  adopted  ? 


MANHOOD.  143 

"  If  we  take  the  first,  civil  war  and  anarchy  are  almost 
certain,  for  there  may  as  truly  be  a  civil  war  in  the  halls 
of  legislation  as  the  fields  of  battle.  If  we  adopt  the  second 
course,  we  but  take  the  shorter  path  to  the  same  point,  anar- 
chy. How  is  it  if  we  take  the  third  ?  Wealth  will  neither 
be  desired  nor  envied  then  as  now  ;  education  and  charac- 
ter, both  attainable  by  all  in  this  land,  will  be  the  things  to 
which  the  ambition  of  all  will  be  directed  ;  the  cry  of  agra- 
rianism  will  die  away ;  the  professions  will  no  longer  be 
crowded  by  incompetent  deserters  from  the  mechanic  arts  ; 
and  well-behaved,  well-mannered  mechanics  will  rank  every- 
where as  highly  as  equally  deserving  men  of  whatever  station. 

"  But  how  can  the  influence  of  wealth  be  done  away,  and 
merit  be  made  the  standard  of  rank. 

"It  can  never  be  done  entirely,  but  we  may  approximate 
to  it  in  many  ways,  and  indeed  are  now  doing  so. 

"  To  say  that  the  spread  of  Christian  feeling  and  princi- 
ple among  men  will  tend  to  the  desired  object,  is  but  anoth- 
er form  of  saying  that  Christianity  opposes  the  prevalent 
worship  of  Mammon  ;  and  yet  there  are  many  that  would 
oppose  what  they  thought  a  wrong  in  the  commonwealth,  but 
never  think  of  opposing  it  by  religion.  Very  few,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  see  that  the  best  principles  of  policy  are  wrapped 
up  in  the  teachings  of  Jesus  ;  and  very  few,  by  making  these 
teachings  known  in  their  remote  consequences,  would  hope 
to  heal  the  sores  of  a  state.  But  we  believe  all  good  and 
statesmanlike  and  substantial  policy  to  be  based  upon,  and 
flow  logically  from,  the  grand  principles  of  human  nature, 
and  its  guide,  the  Book  of  Life.  A  dissemination,  then,  of 
Christian  truth,  a  thorough  and  unsectarian  development 
and  application  of  this  truth  to  every  individual  as  a  man,  a 
citizen,  and  one  member  of  a  family,  we  believe  to  lie  at 
the  root  of  all  reformation. 

"  Next  to  this  in  importance,  we  place  the  spread  of  edu- 
cation by  manual-labor  schools,  where  the  laborer  may  be 


144  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

instructed  and  yet  not  cease  to  be  a  laborer.  The  line  now 
drawn  between  educated  men  and  workingmen  must  be 
done  away  ;  the  farmer  and  mechanic  must  be  educated  ; 
by  which  we  mean,  not  only  that  they  must  read,  write, 
and  cipher,  but  that  they  must  attain  to  those  ends  to  the 
reaching  which  those  things  are  means.  Education  is  not 
only  to  fit  men  to  buy  and  sell  without  being  cheated  ;  it 
looks  farther  than  this  life  and  its  profits.  Education,  in  this 
sense,  may  and  must  be  given  to  the  industrious  and  enter- 
prising of  our  nation  ;  those  whose  misdirected,  but  honest, 
energy  now  threatens  the  rights  of  property,  would  then 
stand  its  friends. 

"  In  the  third  place,  we  look  to  the  efforts  of  the  educated 
men  in  our  republic.  Bv  their  teachings,  through  the  press, 
from  the  pulpit,  the  bar,  the  desk  of  the  lyceum,  they  must  fit 
this  people  for  freedom,  —  Christian  freedom,  —  pure  re- 
publicanism,—  when  money  will  have  no  power  except  that 
which  is  its  own,  the  power  of  buying  so  much  labor  or  the 
results  of  so  much  labor.  The  reformation  of  feeling  with 
regard  to  wealth,  if  it  begin  at  all,  must  begin  with  those  who 
have  the  same  rank  and  influence  with  the  wealthy.  They 
are  to  blame  if  the  present  unwholesome  state  of  things  con- 
tinues. They  must  first  become  freemen,  and  then  break  the 
chains  of  others.  And  they  not  only  must  teach,  but  prac- 
tise ;  they  must  receive  and  respect  the  printer,  of  good 
manners  and  character,  while  they  turn  from  the  rich  gam- 
bler, or  the  time-serving  attorney.  They  must  be  willing 
to  become  themselves  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water.  Already  is  this  done  to  some  extent  in  the  coun- 
try, and  the  more  it  is  done,  the  better  for  religion  and  the 
republic  ;  a  little  leaven  leavcneth  the  whole  lump,  and 
one  man  of  educated  and  disinterested  talent  may  give 
tone  and  standing  to  a  great  class.  If  the  Russian  Peter  is 
to  be  honored  because  he  became  a  shipwright  for  the  mer- 
cantile welfare  of  his  people,  how  much  more  deserving  that 


MANHOOD.  145 

man  who  gives  up  present  rank  for  the  eternal  and  all-em- 
bracing good  of  those  about  him  ! 

"  We  come,  then,  to  these  conclusions,  that  the  respect  now 
paid  mere  wealth,  and  the  prejudice  yet  existing  in  favor  of 
some  and  against  other  occupations,  are  opposed  to  republi- 
canism ;  that  the  elements  of  warfare  of  necessity  exist 
among  us,  our  social  condition  being  in  these  respects  at 
variance  with  our  political  condition  ;  that  this  variance  is  to 
be  done  away,  not  by  taking  from  the  rich  the  wealth  that  is 
theirs,  but  by  keeping  from  that  wealth  the  respect  which 
is  our  own,  and  also  by  examining  the  claims  of  individuals 
to  social  rank,  instead  of  judging,  on  the  principles  of  other 
ages  and  lands,  respecting  whole  classes  ;  and  lastly,  that 
the  great  means  to  be  used  in  this  good  work  are  the 
spread  and  development  of  Christianity,  the  thorough  edu- 
cation of  the  leading  spirits  of  all  occupations  and  profes- 
sions, the  continual  teaching  of  those  now  educated  and 
influential,  together  with  the  practice  by  them  of  receiving 
as  equals  individuals  from  all  lines  of  life,  and  also  of  bring- 
ing up  to  agricultural  and  mechanical  pursuits  many  whose 
birth,  wealth,  and  education  would,  on  present  principles, 
place  them  in  the  professions. 

"  To  effect  any  thing  in  this  great  work,  there  must  be 
the  action  of  very  many,  and  those  strong  and  well-knit, 
minds.  In  the  West,  where  society  was  born  republican, 
where  the  farmer  and  mechanic  may  be  always  indepen- 
dent, where  manual-labor  schools  are  growing  up  rapidly, 
and  where  the  prejudices  of  Europe  have  less  force  than 
elsewhere,  we  hope  to  see  the  experiment  tried  ;  here,  if 
anywhere,  we  think  it  must  succeed.  A  republican  govern- 
ment, based  upon  a  republican  state  of  society,  the  world 
has  never  yet  seen  ;  before  fifty  years  have  passed,  we  trust 
that  something  like  it  may  be  tbe  strength  and  glory  of  this 
great  valley." 

VOL.  i.  13 


146  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

1837.  "  DANGERS  OF  THE  WEST.  —  When  Anthony 
Wayne  forced  from  the  Indians  of  the  Northwest  the  treaty 
of  1795,  this  vast  territory  was  thrown  open  to  all  that 
chose  to  flock  hither.  And  who  would  naturally  seek  the 
wilderness  ?  Not  men  of  wealth,  not  men  of  high  mental 
culture,  but  the  enterprising  and  energetic  poor :  the  shrewd 
New-Englander,  the  saving  German,  the  warm-hearted  hut 
impoverished  Virginian,  —  all  that  would  gain  bread  or 
wealth,  that  would  mend  or  make  fortunes.  The  men  of  the 
West  were  therefore  money-seekers  ;  they  knew  and  cared 
little  for  the  elegances  of  life,  and  the  voice  of  the  Muses 
was  as  little  to  their  taste  as  the  whoop  of  the  savage  ;  even 
History  was  not  listened  to  if  she  told  of  any  thing  prior  to 
1775. 

"  The  character  thus  formed  has  since  varied,  but  not 
radically  changed.  The  West  is  still  the  land  of  promise 
to  the  needy,  and  men  still  come  here  to  mend  or  make  for- 
tunes. Although  the  people  are  intelligent,  although  edu- 
cation is  everywhere  countenanced,  although  many  men  of 
refinement  and  polish  have  arisen  there,  yet  is  the  mass  bent 
upon  gain.  And  even  education,  warmly  and  generously 
as  it  is  supported,  is  half  in  the  pay  of  Mammon  ;  boys  are 
educated  rather  to  'do  well  in  the  world,' than  to  become 
good  men,  and  sincere  Christians  ;  and  reading,  writing,  and 
ciphering  are  very  much  insisted  on,  because  one  cannot 
'  get  along'  without  them,  while  a  cheerful  temper  and  for- 
giving spirit,  and  a  tongue  that  hates  deceit,  are  very  excel- 
lent things,  but  by  no  means  so  important  as  arithmetic. 

"  Now  there  are  two  classes  of  money-seekers  in  the 
world.  The  first  seek  it  as  a  means  to  some  good  end  ;  this 
end  furnishes  their  motive,  and  in  gaining  wealth  they  are 
developing  their  best  powers.  The  second  class  seek  wealth 
as  the  means  to  some  end  of  doubtful  propriety,  or  merely  as 
itself  an  end  ;  they  seek  it,  too,  with  a  spirit  of  intense  devo- 
tion ;  it  is  ever  in  their  thoughts,  and  in  every  thing  influ- 


MANHOOD.  147 

ences  their  conduct.  These  men  are  narrowing  and  dead- 
ening their  best  powers;  they  lose  sight  of  their  immortal 
destiny,  and,  however  Christian  in  profession,  are  practically 
unbelievers.  To  this  class  the  mass  of  money-seekers  every- 
where, and  in  all  time,  belong. 

"  If  this  be  so,  then  national  wealth,  although  the  cause 
of  that  civilization  which  is  without,  may  be  the  destroying 
poison  of  that  civilization  which  is  of  the  spirit,  and  which 
alone  is  of  value.  To  a  Roman,  it  was  a  good  argument 
against  wealth,  that  it  brought  in  luxury  and  national  weak- 
ness ;  but  to  a  Christian,  there  is  a  far  more  weighty  cause 
for  distrusting  it;  it  is  the  individual  moral  torpor  which  it 
brings  about.  For  us  to  have  canals,  and  railroads,  and 
mines,  and  to  be  devoid,  as  a  people,  of  spiritual  purity  and 
spiritual  strength,  is  to  sell,  not  our  birthright,  but  our  souls 
themselves,  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  No  truth  spoken  by  the 
Truth-sayer  is  more  practical,  than  that  we  cannot  serve  God 
and  Mammon  ;  and  it  should  teach  us,  that  whatever  tends  to 
increase  and  perpetuate  among  us  the  race  of  mere  money- 
seekers  tends  inevitably  to  unchristianize  us ;  and  let  us 
never  be  so  short-sighted  as  to  think  that  a  people  can  be 
great,  when  the  individuals  composing  it  are  spiritually  want- 
ing. The  material  riches  of  the  universe  could  never  raise 
from  the  dust  a  nation  of  dead  souls. 

"  It  is  true  that  many  men,  and  many  statesmen,  and 
many  philosophers  too,  do  not  recognize  that  connection  be- 
tween the  individual  and  the  state  which  seems  to  us  so  im- 
portant. They  think  that  because  the  nation,  as  one,  can  be 
rich,  powerful,  and  influential,  while  it  cannot  be  spiritually- 
minded,  therefore  wealth  and  power  are  the  only  things  in 
which  the  nation  is  concerned.  But  if  it  be  a  truism  that 
the  nation  exists  only  for  the  good  of  those  composing  it,  it 
exists  of  course  for  their  highest  good,  and  whatever  is  at 
enmity  with  that  highest  good  must  be  at  enmity  with  the 
true  good  of  the  state,  for  it  is  opposed  to  that  for  which  the 


148  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

state  exists.  But  the  intense  spirit  of  gain,  which  fills  a 
money-seeking  community,  is  opposed  to  the  highest  good 
of  the  members  of  that  community,  for  the  essence  of  it  is 
selfishness,  and  in  its  exercise  the  nobler  powers  of  the  soul 
are  never  called  into  action.  However  valuable,  then,  wealth 
may  be  when  gained,  it  can  never  outweigh  the  evil  attend- 
ing its  gain,  when  pursued  in  the  spirit  so  prevalent  in  a  new 
and  growing  country  ;  and  however  heterodox  the  opinion, 
we  have  no  doubt  it  were  better  for  our  railroads  to  be  de- 
stroyed, our  mineral  wealth  annihilated,  and  our  soil  impov- 
erished, than  for  the  present  respect  and  appetite  for  money 
to  increase,  or  even  to  remain  where  it  is  now.  The  present 
influence  of  riches  is  the  predominance  of  the  material  over 
the  spiritual  ;  it  is  the  sign  of  disease  ;  and  it  is  with  grief 
that  we  feel  that  the  means  for  spiritual  growth  which  me- 
chanical philosophy,  wonderful  natural  abundance,  and  free 
institutions  have  given  us,  have  not,  thus  far,  been  duly  im- 
proved. It  is  with  grief  that  we  feel  the  noblest  talents  and 
purest  characters  of  our  country  so  enwrapped  in  merely 
worldly  good,  giving  over  all  spiritual  concerns  to  the  cler- 
gy, and  living  six  days  in  the  seven  as  if  Christianity  was  to 
them  what  the  ancient  mythology  was  to  the  philosophers,  a 
bawble  to  amuse  the  multitude  with  ;  as  if  they  knew  of  no 
moral  vision  that  looks  beyond  this  life,  and  immortality  were 
a  dream. 

"  If  what  we  have  said  be  correct,  the  people  of  the  West 
have  among  them,  naturally  and  inevitably,  a  dreadful  foe 
to  their  best  good  ;  it  has  been  born  among  them  ;  it  is  their 
misfortune  that  it  is  in  their  households,  not  their  fault,  but 
it  will  be  their  fault  if  it  be  suffered  to  remain.  Every 
patriot  and  every  philanthropist  is  bound  to  assist  in  the  de- 
struction of  this  foe  to  humanity  and  to  republicanism  :  to 
humanity,  because  the  love  of  money  deadens  all  of  human- 
ity that  is  not  perishable  ;  and  to  republicanism,  because, 
while  wealth  is  so  sought  and  so  reverenced,  the  poor  will 


MANHOOD.  149 

envy  and  war  against  the  rich.  The  mass  must  ever  be 
poor,  and,  while  riches  are  held  out  as  the  criterion  of  influ- 
ence, that  mass  must  be  at  variance  with  the  few,  so  that  an 
aristocracy  of  birth  would  scarce  be  more  anti-republican 
than  the  existing  aristocracy  of  long  purses. 

"  But  in  the  West,  not  only  is  wealth  sought,  but  it  is 
sought  very  generally  in  the  worst  of  ways,  by  speculation. 
Whether  speculation  be  first-cousin  to  gambling  or  no,  we 
care  not;  one  thing  is  certain,  that  the  effect  on  the  mind 
and  character  is  the  same,  whether  our  fortune  depend  on  a 
chance  turn  of  a  die,  or  an  equally  chance  turn  of  the 
money  or  produce.  It  is  folly  to  say,  that  all  commercial 
and  agricultural  operations  are  affected  by  chance,  for  if 
this  authorizes  speculation,  it  authorizes  gambling.  The 
minds  of  a  speculating  people  must  be  affected,  and  affected 
injuriously,  by  their  business. 

"  The  men  of  the  West,  then,  have  to  contend,  first,  with  a 
prevalent  spirit  of  mere  money-making,  and  second,  with  a 
disposition  to  make  it  short-hand  ;  both  these  things  are 
natural  products  of  their  soil,  but,  like  many  productions  of 
a  rank  soil,  are  themselves  rank  poisons. 

"  Again,  the  West  was  born  democratic  ;  it  did  not  feel 
or  fight  its  way  from  loyalty  to  independence,  but  began  in 
the  faith  that  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal,  —  a  faith  well 
suited  to  a  race  of  pioneers.  One  result  of  this  faith  has 
been,  that  the  principle  of  reverence  has  grown  weak  this 
side  the  mountains,  while  the  sense  of  self-dependence,  and, 
as  a  common  consequence,  of  contempt  for  all  that  is  op- 
posed to  self,  has  grown  strong.  This  is  an  evil  ;  not  a 
political,  but  an  individual  evil  ;  not  an  evil  that  proves 
democracy  unsuited  for  us,  but  one  that  proves  it  faulty. 
It  is  an  evil  because  no  principle  of  action  leads  more  con- 
tinually to  improvement  than  a  mistrust  of  ourselves,  and  a 
due  reverence  for  others,  and  other  things  than  those  that 
we  have  ;  while  contempt,  based  more  upon  self-esteem  than 
13* 


150  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

the  demerits  of  what  we  contemn,  is  the  mortal  foe  of  ad- 
vancement, and  the  very  opposite  of  Christianity.  It  is  bet- 
ter to  revere  what  is  in  itself  contemptible  than  to  despise 
what  is  in  itself  venerable,  and  imperfect  beings  must  err 
on  one  side  or  the  other.  One  tendency  of  democratic  in- 
stitutions, then,  upon  individuals,  is  to  unchristianize  them, 
by  destroying  Christian  humility  and  elevating  Satanic  pride, 
and  the  evil  results  of  this  tendency  we  see  daily  in  our 
public  halls  no  less  than  in  our  private  kitchens.  We  see 
everywhere  what  is  called  self-respect,  but  what  is  too  often 
in  one  station  unholy  self-reliance,  in  another,  assumption 
and  impertinence,  and  but  very  seldom  that  spirit  of  Christ 
which  men  call  cowardice  and  mean-spiritedness. 

"  There  is  another  evil  coming  from  democratic  institu- 
tions. As  all  can  vote,  and  all  be  chosen  to  office,  political 
rank  and  politics  generally  assume  an  undue  stand  in  our 
minds.  We  soon  mistake  means  for  ends,  and  sacrifice 
great  good  to  gain,  what,  at  the  best,  can  but  lead  to  that 
good  which  we  give  up.  The  end  of  the  state  is  to  serve 
best  the  highest  good  of  its  members ;  but  in  our  anxiety  to 
have  some  man  brought  forward,  or  some  measures  carried, 
we  injure  our  own  minds,  and  mislead  all  whom  we  influ- 
ence, by  a  devotion  to  our  object  wholly  out  of  proportion 
to  its  value.  If  as  much  had  been  said,  thought,  and  written 
about  subjects  of  lasting  importance,  within  ten  years,  as  has 
been  said  about  the  United  States  Bank,  the  character  of  the 
people  might  have  been  almost  changed  ;  but  the  mechanic 
lays  down  his  hammer  to  read  politics,  the  farmer  quits  his 
plough  to  talk  politics  ;  the  merchant  leaves  his  books  half 
posted  to  demonstrate  the  folly  of  the  veto,  or  the  wisdom  of 
the  deposit  removal  ;  even  the  quiet  student  forsakes  his 
books  to  follow  this  Jack-a-lantcrn.  What  if  all  the  women 
should  turn  politicians?  We  should  be  shocked,  because 
their  characters,  we  know,  must  suffer  by  the  turmoil  and 
dust.  And  are  men  so  different  that  theirs  will  not  suffer? 


MANHOOD.  151 

What  is  an  electioneering  clergyman  worth  ?  How  well 
does  he  fit  himself  to  lead  in  the  way  to  heaven  ?  And  shall 
we  not  follow  our  leader  ?  Or  are  we  of  other  clay  than 
he  ?  No  ;  the  truth  is,  that  the  great  interest  felt  in  politics 
by  the  mass  of  a  democracy  injures  every  soul  in  that  mass, 
for  it  is  an  absorbing,  selfish,  earthly,  unspiritual  interest ; 
and  being  such,  it  is  an  evil  ;  it  is  opposed  to  the  end  of 
government,  and  political  freedom  is  no  equivalent  for  moral 
degradation.  The  slave  of  the  Russian  autocrat  may  be 
more  fortunate  in  his  chains  than  we  in  our  freedom,  if  we 
use  that  freedom  wrongly ;  and  we  do  use  it  wrongly,  when 
we  devote  ourselves  to  politics.  But  let  us  be  understood. 
We  are  friends,  not  foes,  to  democracy  ;  we  speak  of  its 
evils,  its  common  and  almost  certain  evils  ;  but  even  with 
these  evils,  we  prefer  it  to  any  other  form,  with  its  evils. 
So  of  wealth ;  there  are  evils  attending  its  accumulation, 
and  all  facilities  to  its  accumulation,  but  it  is  in  itself  a 
blessing  ;  and  though,  if  it  could  not  be  separated  from  those 
evils,  we  should  rather  our  lands  were  poor  than  rich,  yet 
we  believe  it  can  be  ;  we  believe  that  men  may  grow  rich, 
and  yet  not  be  mere  money-seekers  ;  and  we  believe,  too, 
that  they  can  live  in  a  democracy,  and  yet  be  humble  and 
give  to  politics  but  their  due. 

"  While,  therefore,  we  are  in  favor  of  the  democratic 
system  for  this  country  and  people,  we  cannot  but  see  the 
dangers  of  the  system  ;  we  cannot  shut  our  eyes  to  the 
fact,  that  our  freedom  makes  us  estimate  liberty  too  often 
as  an  end  rather  than  a  means,  nor  our  ears  to  the  flat- 
tery poured  out  upon  the  mob  by  those  who  forget  all 
but  petty  self-advancement.  Our  independence  should  be 
used  to  provide  means  for  the  growth  and  perfection  of  our 
people  in  character  and  spirit,  or  it  is  of  little  value.  But  it 
is  not  so  used ;  there  is  no  hiding  the  truth,  that  we  are  pre- 
eminently a  physical  and  worldly  people.  Our  common 
pursuits,  our  literature,  our  education,  are  all  worldly. 


152  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

Practical  men  and  practical  teaching  and  practical  truths 
are  all  the  cry,  and  by  these  things  we  mean  men  and  truths 
fitted  for  this  globe  and  this  body,  as  though,  when  the  last 
day  comes,  the  sincere  Christian,  whose  life  has  been  one  of 
toil  and  temptation,  and  who  has  borne  all  and  done  all,  not 
for  wealth  or  notoriety,  but  for  the  good  of  others  and  his 
own  spiritual  purity,  would  not  be  found  vastly  more  practi- 
cal than  the  richest  merchants  or  most  influential  statesmen. 

"  In  the  love  of  wealth  as  an  end,  in  the  disposition  to 
seek  that  wealth  by  speculation,  in  the  self-dependent  spirit 
resulting  from  political  equality,  and  in  the  great  interest 
taken  in  politics  by  all  classes,  we  believe  may  be  found  the 
roots  of  most  of  the  peculiar  dangers  of  this  country,  and 
in  particular  of  the  West.  Against  those  dangers  all  are 
bound  to  act,  at  least  those  that  look  for  an  immortality. 
And  how  can  they  act  ?  By  education,  —  the  education  of 
the  young,  and  the  education  of  the  adult.  By  placing  in 
the  true  light  the  value  of  wealth,  national  power,  political 
notoriety,  and  political  influence,  as  compared  with  a  warm, 
open,  pure  heart,  and  a  fair,  inquiring,  unsectarian  mind. 

"  We  need  not  cease  to  be  merchants,  because  while 
trading  we  should  keep  justice  and  kindness  more  in  view 
than  mere  gain  ;  because  we  must  regard  the  influence  of 
every  act  upon  others  and  ourselves  as  immortal  beings, 
rather  than  the  net  cash  profits  of  it.  We  need  not  quit 
politics  because  we  must  think  of  the  eternal  interests  of 
those  we  affect  more  than  our  own  immediate  good.  Wash- 
ington was  a  man  of  business  and  a  politician,  and  yet 
ceased  not  to  be  a  Christian  in  every  act,  and  the  same  is 
true  of  John  Jay  and  John  Marshall. 

"  It  is  a  very  commonplace  truth,  to  be  sure,  that  a  man 
should  be  pure  and  kind,  but  it  is  not  a  very  commonplace 
practice  ;  nor  do  w<»  believe  that  there  is  among  teachers, 
writers,  or  influential  mon  generally,  any  thing  like  a  full 
comprehension  of  the  tendency  to  antagonism  which  exists 


MANHOOD.  153 

between  business  and  politics,  and  Christian  duty.  It  is  not 
that  immorality,  or  that  selfishness  even,  is  apt  to  result  from 
trade,  speculation,  and  partyism,  but  that  an  unsound,  over- 
anxious, worldly  mind  comes  from  them.  Those  powers 
which  we  call  spiritual,  because  they  refer  to  a  future  of 
pure  spiritual  existence,  are  unused  by  the  common  man  of 
the  world  ;  he  cares  nothing  for  the  ideal,  the  perfect,  the 
poetic ;  that  natural  longing  for  these  things,  which  exists, 
more  or  less  developed,  in  every  soul,  has  been  pointed  to 
the  money-heap,  the  political  office,  or  the  niche  of  literary 
fame,  and  seeks  in  seeking  them  to  be  satisfied  ;  it  asked 
for  bread  and  has  been  given  a  stone.  In  this  truth  may  be 
found  the  explanation  of  all  the  complaints  of  the  emptiness 
of  riches,  fame,  and  power  ;  the  very  instinct  that  leads 
men  to  seek  these  things  is  that  which  should  guide  them 
to  the  true  object,  a  Christian  life.  He  that  said  to  her  of 
Samaria,  '  Whosoever  drinketh  of  the  water  that  I  shall  give 
him  shall  never  thirst,'  can  alone  quench  that  thirst  for  hap- 
piness, for  power,  for  the  infinite  and  eternal,  and  all  the 
efforts  of  others  can  but  hew  out  broken  cisterns  that  will 
hold  no  water. 

"  These  foes  to  the  true  civilization  are  to  be  met,  I  have 
said,  by  education  ;  not  by  learning  to  cipher  to  the  rule 
of  three,  but  by  a  spiritual  and  religious  education,  —  one 
that  will  lead  men  to  change,  not  only  their  means,  but  their 
ends,  of  life." 

1837.  "PROSPECTS  OF  THE  WEST.  —  We  hear  daily  of 
the  Great  West.  In  what  is  the  West  great  ?  What  do 
men  mean  by  this  phrase  ?  Some  mean  that  we  have  vast 
plains  and  prairies,  and  giant  forests,  —  lakes  of  sea  extent, 
and  rivers  which  an  English  tourist  is  said  to  have  pointed 
to  as  truly  great  for  a  new  country.  Others  mean  that  our 
soil  grows  much  corn,  cotton,  hemp  ;  many  swine  and  oxen ; 
and  holds  stores  of  coal,  iron,  lead,  and  salt.  A  third  calls 


154  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

the  West  great,  because  it  will  be  tlie  home  of  many  men, 
will  exert  a  vast  influence  over  this  land  and  the  world,  and 
may  one  day  be  the  centre  of  learning,  and  wealth,  and 
might.  But  there  is  a  sense  in  which  the  West  will  he, 
though  it  is  not  now,  great  ;  a  sense  little  dwelt  upon,  and 
worthy,  we  think,  of  some  thought  and  remark.  The  West 
will  be  great,  because  it  will  be  the  scat  of  a  new  PRACTI- 
CAL PHILOSOPHY,  snrial,  monil,  political,  religious,  ai,d  lit- 
erary. In  this  broad  vale,  where  society  was  born  republican 
and  Christian,  we  may,  with  the  eye  of  faith,  look  to  see  a 
CHRISTIAN  REPUBLICANISM  shaping  and  moulding  all  things. 

"  And  what  is  a  Christian  Republicanism  ?  It  is  not,  in 
social  life,  a  want  of  caste,  and  absence  of  rank  ;  for  as 
surely  as  one  star  differeth  from  another  star  in  glory,  so 
surely  will  those  of  varying  tastes,  powers,  and  habits  walk 
apart  from  one  another.  In  the  hour  of  turmoil,  the  great 
deep  may  be  broken  up,  and  society,  storm-shaken  and  cha- 
otic, be  devoid  of  all  order  and  beauty;  but  when  stillness 
comes  back,  the  laws  of  social  are  as  certain  as  those  of 
mineral  crystallization,  and  every  layer,  one  above  the 
other,  will  return  to  its  place,  silently,  but  surely.  It  is  not, 
in  politics,  the  absence  of  place,  pow»-r,  patronage  ;  it  is  not 
that  democracy  which  would,  by  rotation  in  office,  place  in 
the  chair  any  and  every  man,  nor  that  which  would  bestow 
office  as  a  reward.  It  would,  on  the  contrary,  forbid  the 
mass  to  hold  place  ;  it  would  silence  him  that  shouted  aloud 
of  his  services,  and  asked  to  be  paid  in  power. 

"The  great  idea, — as  Coleridge  would  call  it,  —  the 
great  informing  idea  of  republicanism  is,  not  that  distinc- 
tions, and  ranks,  and  privileges  are  to  be  abolished,  but  that 
MERIT  shall  take  the  place  of  BIRTH,  WEALTH,  and  PROWESS, 
and  become  the  basis  of  an  aristocracy ;  and  Christian  re- 
publicanism makes  Christ  the  judge  of  merit. 

"  What  is  merit  ?  It  is  genius,  learning,  experience,  and, 
above  all,  character.  It  is  whatever  Christianity  and  the 


MANHOOD.  155 

good  sense  of  the  time  may  make  it.  Merit  was  the  basis 
of  the  European  aristocracy,  at  a  time  when  might  of  arm 
was  merit.  The  error,  the  fatal  error,  was  to  make  that 
which  can  belong  but  to  the  man  descend,  as  an  heirloom, 
to  his  sons  ;  in  that  hour  the  true  principle  of  rank  was 
lost  sight  of.  - 

"  We  wish  upon  this  point  to  be  clear.  We  therefore 
again  say,  that  to  us  republicanism  does  not  oppose  differ- 
ences of  rank  ;  it  does  not  teach  that  men  are  born  equal, 
or  are  ever  equal  ;  it  does  not  level,  for  to  level  is  ever  to 
lower.  No,  it  leaves  those  that  are  high  there,  and  seeks 
to  raise  others  to  them  ;  it  differs  from  other  forms  of  gov- 
ernment in  this,  and  only  this,  that  its  standard  of  height, 
its  principle  of  classification,  is  wide  of  theirs. 

"  The  true  republican,  then,  will  not  seek  to  believe,  or 
to  make  those  about  him  believe,  that  he  and  they  are  as 
good  as  any  ;  his  desire  and  struggle  will  be  to  make  him- 
self and  his  fellows  as  good,  not  only  as  others,  but  as  the 
oracle  within  tells  him  they  should  be.  When  a  place  is 
to  be  filled,  he  will  vote,  speak,  write,  for  the  man  best  fitted 
for  it.  He  will  revere  the  wise,  and  good,  and  aged,  as 
men  of  a  rank  above  his  own  ;  he  will  look  up  to  them  ;  they 
will  be,  in  his  eyes,  nobles.  But  you  will  say  this  is  so  al- 
ready. We  reply,  to  some  extent  it  is  ;  the  mass  feel,  though 
they  do  not  see,  the  idea  we  have  spoken  of;  they  cry 
aloud,  '  All  men  are  equal,'  and  bow  to  thousands  ;  their  acts 
mock  their  words  daily,  —  and  why?  Because  they  do  not 
think  of  inequality,  unless  in  fortune,  birth,  and  education  ; 
they  mean  to  say,  when  they  speak  of  all  men  being  born 
equal,  that  no  man,  merely  because  of  the  condition  of  his 
fathers,  is  high;  nor  is,  for  any  thing  he  may  have  himself 
done,  entitled  to  other  than  the  natural  and  certain  results 
thereof.  For  instance,  the  son  of  Daniel  Webster  has  not, 
because  of  his  father's  stand,  a  claim  to  any  preeminence 
himself;  nor,  having  equal  merit  with  his  father,  can  he 


156  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

claim  to  give  more  votes  than  others,  or  receive  a  support 
from  the  state.  But  he  can  and  will  claim  to  exert  a  greater 
moral  and  intellectual  influence  than  others,  to  stand  higher 
and  be  more  respected  than  others.  And  nature  guarantees 
his  claim,  for  republicanism  is  the  order  of  nature ;  the 
aristocracy  of  a  republic  is  the  aristocracy  of  nature.  It  is 
an  error  to  think  a  patriarchal  government  resembles  a 
monarchy  ;  the  father  rules  on  the  ground  of  merit,  not  of 
birth  ;  he  rules  on  the  true  republican  ground,  and  so  does 
the  sachem  of  the  Indian  tribe.  And  each  of  nature's  gov- 
ernors, each  and  all,  rule  on  the  score  of  merit,  —  merit 
measured  by  the  unenlightened  sense,  while  with  us,  as  we 
have  before  said,  the  judge  of  merit  should  and  must  be 
Him  that  inhabiteth  eternity. 

"  This  Christian  republicanism  we  hope  will  one  day 
abide  in  the  West ;  it  is  the  social  arid  political  philosophy 
which  is  to  become  the  marked  faith  of  this  land.  Old  in 
theory,  it  will,  applied  to  practice,  be  new  ;  and  though  it 
must  ever  come  short  of  the  point  of  perfection,  much,  very 
much,  may  be  done  towards  its  growth  and  power  ;  and 
much  is  doing  even  now,  while  we  write. 

"  And  a  new  religious  philosophy  is  to  spring  up  here  ; 
not  a  new  system  of  religious  faith  and  rite,  but  new  princi- 
ples of  religious  thought,  feeling,  word,  and  action.  Unita- 
rianism  we  do  not  hope  nor  wish  to  see  the  one  creed  here  ; 
identity  of  doctrine  God  never  meant  should  be,  for  he  gave 
us  our  minds,  and  placed  us  where  we  are  ;  by  the  last  he 
made  us  Christians  rather  than  Turks,  and  by  the  first  he 
made  us  Calvinists,  Methodists,  or  Unitarians.  Until  the 
original  and  broad  differences  between  men  are  done  away, 
the  same  proofs,  arguments,  appeals,  will  affect  them  differ- 
ently ;  and  there  is  as  little  chance  of  their  agreeing  as 
there  is  that  the  herdsman  of  Bukharia  will  become  Christian. 
He  may  be  made  so,  and  the  strong  bonds  of  temper  and 
training  may  be  rent,  and  far-sundered  sectarians  be  united  ; 


MANHOOD.  157 

but  such  a  union  will  not  be  general.  One  man  is  born  a 
Socinian,  another  a  Calvinist,  a  third  a  disciple  of  Emanuel 
Swedenborg.  And  never  in  this  valley  may  the  Sabbath 
smile  upon  a  dead  uniformity  !  Long  may  the  follower  of  the 
Genevan  here  pour  forth  his  unwritten  prayer !  Long  may 
the  clergyman  of  the  Episcopal  Church  lose  himself  in  the 
beauty  and  devotion  of  his  most  beautiful  service,  the  Ro- 
man Catholic,  in  his  vast  cathedral,  speak  the  words  of  truth 
and  wisdom  to  those  who,  of  all,  most  need  them,  the 
Methodist  seek  God  in  the  wilderness,  and  the  Baptist  call 
aloud  to  him  from  the  water-courses  !  We  would  not  blot 
out  one  church,  nor  take  from  any  the  faith  which  forms  his 
staff. 

"  The  religious  ideas  which  we  hope  may  become  the 
life  of  faith  here  are  those  of  the  Reformation,  as  they 
were  in  the  breast  of  Luther  when  passion  slept,  and  the 
strong  voice  of  his  own  good  and  right  sense  spake  out, 
Freedom  from  naked  authority  ;  toleration  in  heart  as  well 
as  act  ;  modesty,  hope,  faith,  in  doctrine  and  demeanour ; 
appeals  to  the  reason  —  not  the  understanding  which  rejects 
mysteries  that  reason  receives,  but  the  true  reason  which 
takes  hold  on  the  mysterious  moral,  as  on  the  mathematical 
truth,  and  believes  —  rather  than  passion  and  prejudice  ;  — 
these  form  the  central  points  of  that  philosophy  which,  old 
in  the  world  of  thought,  is  yet  unknown  in  the  world  of  feel- 
ing and  action  ;  but  which  we  trust  may  find  a  dwelling  upon 
our  plains,  and  walk  unfettered  among  the  green  pastures, 
and  by  the  still  waters,  of  the  West. 

"Next,  as  to  the  literature  which  we  hope  may  reign  here, 
even  before  this  age  is  closed  ;  and  which  must,  in  a  meas- 
ure, precede  the  social,  political,  and  religious  principles  to 
which  we  have  pointed.  What  is  the  literature  of  an  age 
and  country  ?  It  is  the  mass  of  written  wisdom  and  folly 
which  has  been  created  and  chosen  out  to  bear  upon  and 
mould  the  mind  of  that  age  and  place.  It  consists  of  the 

VOL.  i.  14 


158  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

school  manuals  of  the  grown-up  children  ;  it  is  one  means 
by  which  they  educate  themselves  ;  and  in  this  age  is  a 
very  important  means.  The  philosophy  of  a  literature  is 
formed  by  the  general  principles  in  harmony  with  which  it 
is  built  up.  The  great  ideas  which  we  look  to  see  govern 
literature  in  the  West  are,  in  the  abstract,  aged,  and,  alas! 
feeble  also  ;  but,  in  practice,  are  little  known.  They  flow 
from  the  object  and  influence  of  literature,  as  given  in  the 
above  definition  ;  they  regard  writings  as  means,  more  or 
less  mighty,  to  influence  for  good  or  evil  all  to  whom  they 
go  ;  and  of  course  look  with  a  keen  regard  at  all  who  write. 
Under  their  rule,  even  their  foes  would  not  be  forced  to  si- 
lence ;  for  that  would  be  indeed  to  do  evil  that  good  might 
come  ;  but  all  enemies  would  be  won  away  from  enmity. 
Is  the  literature  of  this  age  and  land  created  and  governed 
by  the  philosophy  we  speak  of  ?  When  Byron's  poetry 
runs  afar  on  before  Southey  and  Wordsworth  ;  when  Bul- 
wer  and  D'Israeli  are  re-read  more  often  than  Edgeworth, 
and  perhaps  Scott;  when  novels  too  nerveless  to  live  a  poor 
month  overthrow  history,  poetry,  science,  —  is  the  litera- 
ture of  this  age  fitted  to  raise  the  age  ?  We  fear  not ;  and 
if  the  time  does  go  on,  and  not  back,  it  is,  we  think,  despite 
the  leading  literature.  But  all  truth,  whether  of  time,  place, 
and  act,  as  in  history  and  science  ;  of  character  and  nature, 
as  in  poetry  and  fiction  ;  or  of  abstract  thought,  as  in  ethics,  — 
all  can  and  should  be  so  chosen  and  given  as  to  work  good. 
In  all  lands  there  is,  at  this  time,  a  wish,  an  effort,  to  have 
such  a  literature  ;  but  nowhere  do  we  think  it  can  be  looked 
for  with  so  much  hope  as  in  the  centre  of  this  country. 

"  Having  now  very  briefly  sketched  what  the  peculiar 
philosophy  of  the  West  will  be,  we  proceed  to  say  why  we 
believe  it  will  be  so. 

"In  Europe,  society  grew  from  barbarism  to  civilization; 
and  the  shreds  and  tatters  of  barbarism  are  about  it  to  this 
day.  Upon  our  Atlantic  coast,  society  was  born  republican, 


MANHOOD.  159 

grew  up  semi-aristocratic,  if  not  in  name  in  spirit,  and  was 
at  maturity  once  more  thrown  back  to  its  first  state.  In 
South  America  it  began  in  aristocracy  yet  more  rotten  ; 
and  to  this  day  is  unsound.  Now,  upon  the  state  and  health 
of  society  depends  the  character  of  politics,  religion,  and  lit- 
erature, as  truly  as  the  state  and  health  of  society  depend 
upon  them  ;  it  is  action  and  reaction  for  ever. 

"  But  in  the  West,  as  we  have  said  before,  society  was 
born  republican  ;  it  first  saw  the  light  when  the  great  ideas 
which  we  think  are  to  find  a  home  here  were  strongly 
spoken  and  written,  though  very  little  acted  upon.  The 
peculiar  philosophy  to  which  we  have  before  referred  was 
therefore  from  the  first  the  philosophy  of  this  section  in  a 
greater  degree  than  of  any  other  section  or  country. 

"This,  then,  gives  us  good  reason  to  say  that  here  we 
may  look  for  the  more  full  development,  not  in  theory,  but  in 
practice,  of  this  philosophy,  for  as  yet  it  is  not  fully  devel- 
oped ;  and,  indeed,  strong  antagonist  principles  have  been 
seen  among  us,  and  our  dangers  are  equal  to  our  privileges. 

"  Another  reason  which  leads  us  to  hope  much  from  the 
West  is  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Western  character.  Enthu- 
siasm is  a  virtue ;  a  virtue  much  wanting  in  the  New  Eng- 
land character,  and  which  not  unfrequently  runs  into  a  vice 
at  the  South.  At  the  West  we  find  a  medium  ;  the  warmth 
of  one  zone  has  combined  well  with  the  cool  judgment  of  the 
other  ;  and  while  there  is  enough  of  the  former  to  produce 
great  changes,  and  changes  based  upon  abstract  truth,  and 
aloof  from  mere  worldly  interest,  we  think  there  is  good 
sense  enough  growing  up  among  us  to  keep  such  changes 
from  excess. 

"  A  third  peculiarity  of  the  West  is,  that  men  from  all 
lands,  with  all  manner  of  prejudices,  habits,  and  modes  of 
action,  meet  here ;  and  the  result  of  their  meeting  is,  so  to 
neutralize  one  another  as  to  leave  us  open,  unbiased,  as 
a  people  unprejudiced ;  and  therefore  better  ground  for 


160  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

the  growth  of  good  or  evil  seed  than  any  whose  modes  and 
characters  were  fixed  and  stony. 

"  A  fourth  reason  is,  that  in  the  West  there  has  been  of 
necessity  much  independence  heretofore,  and  that  indepen- 
dence, and  consequent  individuality,  still  continue.  Men  and 
women  think  more  for  themselves,  are  less  under  the  in- 
fluence of  authority ;  they  are  not  all  of  one  growth,  made 
after  one  pattern.  In  most  lands,  before  the  minds  of  the 
mass  came  to  act  upon  politics  and  religion,  they  had  lost 
their  first  individual  freedom  ;  here  they  have  not  to  the 
same  degree.  These  are  our  chief  reasons  for  thinking 
that  the  philosophy  or  great  principles  of  social  and  political 
eminence,  of  religious  thought  and  action,  and  literary  prom- 
inence, will  be  here  what  thousands  have  said  they  ought 
to  be  everywhere,  but  what  they  have  not  been  anywhere. 
And  if  they  are, —  if  the  West  shall  make  merit  the  test  of 
rank,  and  grant  rank  to  merit ;  if  those  great  and  influential 
doctrines  of  Christianity,  which  all  revere,  should  find  a 
home  here  ;  if  free,  fair  inquiry,  and  spiritual  toleration  and 
charity,  shall  dwell  here  ;  and  if  our  literature  shall  aid  in 
the  growth,  and  the  strength,  and  the  support  of  these  prin- 
ciples,—  then  will  the  West,  of  a  truth,  be  great.  And  be 
it  remembered,  that  whether  all  this  shall  or  shall  not  be 
depends  upon  the  educated,  influential  writers,  speakers, 
and  actors  of  the  West ;  upon  their  backs  is  the  burden, 
and,  if  true  to  their  duty,  they  will  not  faint  under  it.  Theirs 
is  the  burden,  and  theirs  will  be  the  honor  of  success,  or 
the  disgrace  of  failure  ;  —  of  failure,  for  failure  may  come. 
There  are  many  and  great  dangers  about  us  ;  these,  at  some 
future  time,  we  shall  attempt  to  point  out.  Not  that  they  are 
hidden,  but  custom  blinds  us  to  them  ;  and,  indeed,  what 
many  look  on  as  our  safeguards,  we  fear  may  prove  the 
source  of  our  downfall." 

1837.     "  MASSES  vs.  INDIVIDUALS.  —  There  is  a  tendency 


MANHOOD.  161 

at  the  present  day  to  attach  too  much  importance  to  masses  of 
men,  and  too  little  to  the  persons  forming  those  masses.  The 
good  of  the  race,  of  the  nation,  of  the  state,  of  the  city,  of  the 
circle,  is  talked  of  and  made  too  prominent  ;  it  hides  the 
good  of  the  men,  women,  and  children  as  individuals,  hav- 
ing wants  and  interests  beyond  those  which  they  possess  as 
members  of  the  various  masses  just  named.  We  lose  sight 
of  the  plain  truths,  that  the  mass  has  interests  only  because 
its  members,  taken  separately,  have  them  ;  and  that  they 
have  also  others,  as  simple  individuals.  We  see  that  what 
is  for  the  good  of  the  whole  is  for  the  good  of  each  part ; 
but  fail  to  notice  that  that  is  not  the  only  good  belonging  to 
each  part.  The  effect  of  this  mode  of  viewing  the  subject 
is,  that  too  many  of  us  spend  our  lives  in  speculating  about 
the  advance  of  the  species,  and  seeking  to  contribute  thereto  ; 
or  in  reflecting  upon  the  state  of  the  nation,  its  wants  and 
defects,  and  how  to  remedy  them.  We  look  at  our  neighbour 
as  a  man  and  a  republican,  and  seek,  in  both  capacities,  to 
enlighten  and  advance  him  ;  but  as  an  individual,  having  an 
individual  character,  temperament,  and  education, —  preju- 
dices peculiar  to  himself,  and  powers  and  knowledge  also 
peculiar  to  himself,  —  we  do  not  see  him,  and  do  not  seek 
to  improve  and  develop  him.  Indeed,  it  is  very  probable 
we  may  look  upon  ourselves  as  merely  members  of  the  race, 
the  nation,  the  party,  and  the  church  to  which  we  belong, 
and  fail  to  discover  that  we  have  peculiarities,  good  and 
bad,  that  should  be  nourished  or  rooted  out ;  and  thus  the 
most  important  part  of  self-education  is  neglected,  and  we 
go  down  to  the  grave,  our  capacities  but  half  developed,  our 
failings  but  half  cured. 

"  Again  :  —  Not  only  do  we  act  too  little  upon  others,  in 
their  individual  capacities,  but  also  too  little  as  individuals 
ourselves.  We  come  to  them  as  members  of  some  mass  ; 
we  join  societies,  in  order  to  do  good  ;  and  our  separate  in- 
fluence, though  it  does  and  must  exist,  is  too  little  noted  and 
14  *"• 


162  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

relied  upon.  '  A  corporation,'  says  the  law,  '  has  no  soul  ' ; 
and  men  of  business  tell  us  it  is  true  ;  for  corporations, 
though  just,  are  not  merciful  ;  the  outer  rule  of  right  binds 
them,  but  they  have  no  rule  of  mercy  within.  Something 
of  this  same  soullessncss  belongs  to  all  masses  and  societies  ; 
and  when  a  society  performs  an  act,  it  does  often  but  half 
the  good  an  individual  would  have  done  by  the  same  act. 
For  instance,  a  poor  man  is  helped  by  a  society,  —  his  want  is 
supplied  ;  but  there  is  no  fellow,  no  one  person,  to  whom  his 
heart  springs  ;  his  gratitude  is  like  that  which  thousands  feel 
to  their  theoretic  God  ;  but  go  yourself  for  yourself,  and 
aid  that  man,  and  you  give  food,  not  to  the  body  alone,  but 
to  the  soul,  and  the  good  you  do  is  tenfold  that  done  by  the 
unthanked  giver.  Or,  ask  the  mechanic  whose  mind  has 
been,  by  turns,  lifted  by  the  tracts  of  the  Society  of  Useful 
Knowledge,  and  the  little  volumes  of  Harriet  Martineau, 
what  difference  of  effect  they  produced,  and  you  will  find 
him  to  the  individual  teacher  grateful ;  but  the  society  is  an 
abstraction,  —  a  thing,  not  a  person  ;  he  values  the  gift,  but 
the  giver  has  no  nook  in  his  heart ;  his  intellect  has  been 
raised  by  what  he  read,  but  his  moral  nature  has  not  been 
advanced  by  what  he  felt. 

"  Now,  we  hold  all  institutions  of  every  kind  to  be  but 
means  to  this  one  END,  —  the  full  development  of  each  indi- 
vidual in  the  community.  Banks,  corporations,  governments, 
all  are  means,  —  and  means  to  this  end.  But  the  end  is  lost 
sight  of.  We  argue  about  the  policy  of  this  measure,  and 
the  policy  of  that  measure,  but  seldom  attempt  to  trace  out 
the  ultimate  influence  of  policies  and  measures  upon  the 
souls,  the  intellects,  and  hearts  of  our  neighbours,  A.  B,  and 
C.  A  boy  is  educated  to  be  a  lawyer,  merchant,  mechanic, 
or  what  not ;  but  is  seldom  taught  to  make  each  and  every 
employment  of  life  conduce  to  his  individual  growth  in 
excellence.  As  a  member  of  society,  he  is  taught  to  walk  in 
this  or  the  other  path  ;  but  as  a  child  of  God,  for  whose 


MANHOOD.  163 

good  society  exists,  he  is  not  taught  to  walk.  From  the  pul- 
pit he  is  appealed  to,  as  an  individual  ;  but  where  is  it  im- 
pressed upon  him,  that  in  every  relation,  in  every  situation, 
in  every  conceivable  condition,  he  is,  and  must  act  as,  an 
individual  ? 

"  Let  us  not  be  misunderstood.  We  do  not  wish  men  to 
act  always  with  reference  to  their  individual  interests  ;  but 
with  reference  to  their  individual  duties,  interests,  and  aims" 

September,  1837.  "  There  is  one  great  truth,  which  must 
be  the  root  of  vital  action  in  this  country, —  that,  under  free 
institutions,  reform  must  come,  not  from  government  or  so- 
cieties, but  from  individuals.  Dr.  Channing  has  illustrated 
and  enforced  this  truth  in  many  ways,  but  every  day  makes 
me  more  aware  how  little  it  is  apprehended.  With  regard 
to  the  present  currency  question,  for  instance,  it  seems  to 
be  thought  by  those  about  me,  that  legislation  can  prevent 
such  earthquake  shocks  of  bankruptcy  as  those  of  last  year. 
In  a  despotism,  the  action  of  government  might  prevent 
them  ;  but  is  it  not  one  of  the  most  essential  distinctions  of  a 
free  nation,  that  government  does  not  exercise  control  in 
such  matters  ?  So  it  seems  to  me.  A  national  bank  could 
not  have  prevented  the  catastrophe  ;  it  did  not  in  1824-25  ; 
it  has  not  now  in  England.  Even  if  our  federal  govern- 
ment had  the  power  of  creating  a  paper  currency,  irredeem- 
able (as  was  that  of  England,  till  lately),  it  could  riot  affect 
the  matter  greatly  ;  the  proportion  of  bills  of  exchange  to 
currency,  in  a  commercial  country,  is  ten  to  one,  and  when- 
ever individual  cupidity  is  excited,  individual  credit  will  be 
locked  up  in  forms  that,  for  the  time,  annihilate  it,  and  a 
terrible  crisis  must  follow,  not  because  the  one  of  currency  is 
gone  only,  but  because  nine  of  the  ten  of  credit  are  gone  also. 
No  legislation  can  prevent  this,  and  nothing  but  individual 
principle  and  wisdom  can.  Mr.  Van  Buren  is  right,  to  my 
thinking,  when  he  says  that  a  commercial  overthrow  which 


164  LIFE    OF    JA3IES    H.    PERKINS. 

affects  London,  Paris,  Vienna,  Constantinople,  Alexandria, 
and  Ispahan,  could  not  have  been  caused  or  prevented  by 
United  States  Banks. 

"  Upon  the  currency  question,  as  one  of  political  econ- 
omy, I  have  seen  nothing  that  satisfied  me.  I  am  little  able 
to  judge,  but  my  impression  is  that  the  present  administra- 
tion, in  their  general  idea  of  opposition  to  a  currency  resting 
on  the  faith  of  corporations,  are  right.  If  we  go  beyond 
gold  and  silver  to  a  representative  of  them,  it  seems  to  me 
that  nothing  but  a  nation  should  make  the  representative  for 
itself;  the  whole,  as  existing  in  the  government,  should 
alone  have  the  power  of  making  money,  that  is,  issuing 
paper. 

"  On  this  and  similar  questions,  I  take  more  interest  daily, 
although  so  little  of  a  party  politician  as  to  be  uncertain  to 
which  party  I  most  incline.  Indeed,  I  think  every  man  that 
claims  to  think  ought  to  follow  Dr.  Channing's  example,  and 
come  forward  in  print  or  conversation,  as  his  gifts  may  be, 
to  assist  in  the  well-keeping  of  the  general  mind  in  politics  ; 
and  this  not  only  because  of  the  immense  results,  immediate 
and  ulterior,  of  every  great  political  movement,  such  as  the 
annexation  of  Texas  to  the  Union,  but  also  because  the 
most  efficient  form  of  national  education  must,  for  a  long 
time,  be  through  politics.  Self-government  is,  and  will  be, 
a  passion  with  the  people,  as  military  glory  was  with  the 
French,  —  through  that  is  the  readiest  access  to  their  head 
and  heart  ;  those  that  read  on  nothing  else,  argue  on 
nothing  else,  and  study  nothing  else,  read,  discuss,  and  study 
politics.  Make  them,  on  that  point,  honest,  far-sighted,  spir- 
itually-minded, and  you  make  them  so  throughout. 

"  In  your  views  as  to  the  true  condition  of  society  as 
it  should  le,  I  most  cordially  agree.  The  cause  why  so 
many  have  failed  to  inspire  on  a  large  scale  what  succeeded 
with  a  few,  was,  I  think,  what  I  have  referred  to,  —  they 
relied  too  much  on  the  effect  of  masses,  —  on  government, 


MANHOOD.  165 

on  rules,  on  creeds.  One  great  point  in  the  Unitarian  faith 
is,  that  it  speaks  to  you  and  me,  not  to  a  church.  I  don't 
believe  religious  corporations  have  souls  any  more  than  lay 
ones  have,  and  spiritual  truths  fall  dead  on  their  ears.  That 
something  like  a  democratic,  or  —  to  use  the  true  term  — 
a  Christian,  state  of  society  is  to  exist  in  this  country,  I  de- 
voutly believe.  In  the  West  there  is  much  to  favor  the  idea 
that  here  will  be  the  main  seat  of  this  society,  and  I  should 
not  think  the  chance  lessened  if,  for  ten  or  twenty  years  to 
come,  infidelity  should  increase  here  ;  —  the  night  is  darkest 
and  coldest  just  before  daybreak." 

1838.  "  ASSOCIATIONS,  A  VITAL  FORM  OF  SOCIAL  AC- 
TION. —  In  the  physical  world  about  us,  we  see  forces  of  two 
wholly  different  kinds,  namely,  vital  forces  and  mechanical 
forces  ;  and,  in  accordance  with  this  distinction,  divide  bodies 
into  vital  and  mechanical.  The  difference  alluded  to  is  seen 
broadly  in  the  difference  which  exists  between  a  draught- 
horse  and  a  locomotive  engine.  It  is  seen  also  in  the  differ- 
ence between  the  warming  of  the  horse's  blood,  and  the 
heating  of  the  water  in  the  locomotive's  boiler ;  or,  again,  in 
the  difference  between  the  movement  of  the  horse's  limbs, 
considered  as  levers,  and  the  action  of  the  muscles  which 
give  play  to  those  limbs. 

"  This  distinction,  so  familiar  and  plain  in  the  material 
world,  is  true  also  of  the  mental  and  moral  worlds.  Thus, 
the  common  processes  of  arithmetic  are  mechanical, —  so 
entirely  mechanical,  that  Mr.  Babbage  has  made  his  calcu- 
lating engine,  which  is  not  only  far  more  accurate  than  man, 
but  is  also  far  more  profound,  and  has  succeeded  in  puzzling 
even  the  genius  of  its  inventor.  But  while  this  engine  is 
thus  mighty  in  mere  calculation,  the  elements  of  which  are 
given  it,  it  is  unable  to  select  the  elements  necessary  to  the 
most  simple  process  ;  there  must  come  in  the  vital  calcula- 
tor, man.  In  music  we  see  the  same  thing  ;  by  no  very 


166  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

complex  process,  the  various  notes  may  be  combined  to  an 
indefinite  extent,  and  every  combination  be,  more  or  less,  a 
melody.  This  may  be  done  by  wheels  and  pulleys,  or  by 
the  mind  acting  mechanically  :  in  truth,  the  most  common 
form  of  musical  composition  is  but  a  mechanical  re-combi- 
nation of  the  elements  derived  from  old  tunes,  and  might  be 
as  well  done  by  an  engine  as  by  a  mind.  But  not  so  with 
the  melodies  of  the  great  Italians  ;  not  so  with  the  harmonies 
of  Handel  and  Beethoven.  These  men  acted  vitally  in  their 
compositions,  and  no  machine,  mental  or  material,  can  do 
what  they  did.  In  poetry,  the  rhyme  and  verse  are  usually 
merely  mechanical  ;  and  all  are  aware  how  much  of  what 
we  call  poetry  is  called  so  because  it  has  rhyme  and  verse. 
But  the  true  poet  is  no  machine  ;  his  very  verse  is  alive  :  he 
does  not  count  his  fingers  for  his  numbers ;  they,  with  the 
sentiments  they  embody,  flow  from  his  soul,  — 

'  Spring  to  their  task  with  energy  divine, 
Laugh,  weep,  command,  and  live  in  every  line.' 

So,  too,  in  painting,  statuary,  and  architecture,  we  find  those 
who,  with  mere  mechanical  industry,  recompose  pictures, 
statues,  and  buildings,  from  the  materials  about  them,  and 
those  who  truly  create  figures,  faces,  groups,  and  columns. 
The  Greeks  acted  vitally  when  they  built  the  Parthenon  and 
the  temple  of  Apollo  near  Miletus,  and  our  ancestors  acted 
vitally  when  from  the  Druid  forest-trees  they  caught  the 
idea  of  the  great  cathedrals  of  England  and  France ;  but 
we  act  mechanically,  when,  from  fragments  of  these  several 
buildings,  we  try  to  recompose  a  consistent  whole,  placing 
Gothic  spires  and  Saxon  towers  over  Grecian  porticos. 

"  The  power  which  acts  vitally  we  call  genius  ;  that 
which  acts  mechanically  we  call  talent.  The  man  of  talent 
will  construct  a  most  excellent  lecture,  address,  sermon,  or 
any  thing  else  which  can  be  constructed.  But  when  the  hour 
of  earnest  debate  comes,  and  from  the  very  centre  of  the 
spirit  a  word  is  needed  to  restrain,  to  compel,  to  calm,  or  to 


MANHOOD.  167 

rouse,  then  the  voice  of  the  man  of  talent  is  unheard,  for 
construction  will  not  do  ;  not  only  a  living,  but  a  life-giving, 
power  is  called  for  ;  and  while  a  thousand  history-quarriers 
and  masters  of  logic  are  as  if  dumb,  some  son  of  genius, 
who  can  create,  lifts  his  prophetic  tone,  and  the  whole  world 
follows  him. 

"  And  in  character  we  recognize  the  same  distinction. 
He  whose  virtues  result  from  calculated  happiness,  here  or 
hereafter,  —  who  walks  by  an  external  law,  instead  of  an  in- 
ternal faith,  —  who  moulds  his  moral  nature,  as  a  potter  the 
clay,  —  is  a  mechanical  moralist,  and  has  not  yet  learned  the 
vital  truth  of  Christianity.  Utilitarianism,  in  every  form, 
whether  in  the  orthodox  churchman,  Paley,  or  the  atheistic 
jurisprudent,  Bentham,  is  mechanical,  —  inconsistent  with 
what  is  called,  in  technical,  but  true  terms,  vital  piety.  The 
life  of  the  Christian  will  be  true,  because  truth  is  his  life, 
not  because  truth  will  buy  bread  and  cloth.  Luther  was 
alive,  and  so  was  Fenelon,  his  opposite  in  faith  and  spirit, 
as  it  would  seem  at  first.  Erasmus  was,  morally,  a  piece 
of  clock-work,  and  so,  in  a  great  measure,  was  Benjamin 
Franklin. 

"  But  the  difference  between  vital  and  mechanical  action 
does  not  stop  with  individuals.  Many  social  movements 
belong  to  each  class.  Thus,  in  the  French  Revolution,  the 
great  outbreak  was  vital,  but  the  constitutions  of  that  time 
were  mechanical,  and  could  not  work  or  last.  So  in  this 
country  the  republican  form  is  living  ;  but  in  Mexico  it  is  a 
mere  dead  image,  moulded  after  our  living  form,  and  there 
it  is  powerless. 

"  But  society,  which  lies  behind  all  governments  and 
social  arrangements,  and  of  which  they  are  but  the  outer 
skin,  is  always  living.  If  the  skin  die,  it  sloughs  off,  and  a 
new  one  comes. 

"  It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  it  were  meant  that  society, 
like  the  silk-worm,  should  grow  toward  the  perfect  state,  not 


1C8  LIFE    OF    JAMES    11.    PERKINS. 

gradually  and  happily,  but  by  fits  and  starts,  with  painful 
moultings,  struggles,  and  sickness  niuh  unto  death.  To 
certain  periods  seem  to  be  given  institutions  fating  for  the 
time,  but  not  growing  as  the  body  within  grows,  and  so  suc- 
ceeds a  season  of  revolution  :  not  only  forms  of  government, 
which  are  commonly  the  least  vital  parts  of  society,  change, 
but  social  organization  throughout  changes  ;  aristocracies 
cease,  democracies  come  in,  or  democracies  cease  and  des- 
potisms rise. 

"  Thus,  in  its  day,  the  feudal  system  was  the  vital  form 
of  social  arrangement  ;  but  the  day  went  by  ;  the  feudal 
system  was  no  longer  what  the  spirit  of  society  called  for  ; 
it  was  as  the  second  skin  of  the  silk-worm  approaching  its 
third  state  ;  it  grew  dry  and  hard,  it  no  longer  yielded,  as  of 
old,  to  the  motions  of  the  body  within,  but  cramped  it  and 
cut  it  with  its  inflexible  wrinkles,  until  at  length  the  expan- 
sion of  the  social  juices  cracked  the  hard  case,  and  the  great 
worm  was  left  to  struggle  out  of  its  prison.  This  moulting 
is  not  yet  through. 

"  Meanwhile,  as  it  would  appear,  society  demands,  or 
rather  produces  unconsciously,  many  new  forms  to  replace 
the  old  ones,  which  are  nearly  or  wholly  done  away  with  in 
some  parts  of  the  world.  It  is  one  of  these  new  forms  of 
social  action  that  1  am  now  about  to  speak  of. 

'•  In  all  times  and  lands,  it  is  noticeable  that  men  have  not 
acted  individually.  Even  those  individuals  whose  great 
powers  have  enabled  them  to  do  the  most  have  acted 
through  bodies  of  men,  classes,  and  castes.  Thus,  in  Orien- 
tal lands,  a  priesthood  ruled  ;  in  (Jreece,  a  faction  ;  in  Rome, 
a  patrician  order  ;  in  feudal  Europe,  a  church  and  an  aris- 
tocrnry.  When  Peter  tin:  Hermit  roused  Europe,  he  acted 
upon  classes  ;  when  Hildebrand  laid  his  grasp  upon  tempo- 
ralities, he  acted  through  bis  influence  upon  orders  ;  when 
Luther  effected  the  Reformation,  he  relied  upon  the  common 
interests  of  many.  The  Church  and  the  aristocracy  were, 


MANHOOD.  169 

in  the  Middle  Ages,  strong  enough  to  produce  any  result 
they  wished.  They  were  the  true  product  of  the  time,  and 
suited  the  time.  Had  a  temperance  reform  been  then  need- 
ed, the  Church  would  have  wrought  it.  Had  abolition  been 
called  for,  the  Church  would  have  effected  it.  Had  it  been 
necessary  to  withstand  democracy  and  revolution,  the  Church 
and  the  nobles  would  both  have  helped  in  the  good  work. 
Even  now,  in  England,  the  reliance  of  the  Tory  party  is  upon 
the  Church  and  the  House  of  Lords  ;  to  them  men  look  in  the 
great  warfare  of  conservatism  with  chartism  and  socialism. 
Now  all  this  is  right,  and  while  we  look  the  truth  fairly  in 
the  eye,  and  see  that  we,  in  these  United  States,  have  no 
church,  in  the  sense  in  which  Rome  and  England  have,  and 
cannot,  of  course,  rely  upon  a  church,  let  us  not  sneer  at 
the  Oxford  divines  and  their  followers,  who  see  no  hope  in 
this  dark  day  of  our  mother  country,  save  through  the 
might  of  church  authority,  —  save  through  the  denial  of  the 
doctrines  of  individual  judgment,  which  have  followed  the 
Reformation. 

"  But  here  the  progress  of  democracy  has  been  much 
greater  than  in  Europe,  though  the  tendency  of  all  Christen- 
dom has  been  to  give  up  classes,  and  corporate  bodies  of 
every  kind,  and  to  come  to  simple,  direct  individualism.  In 
our  government,  we  recognize  only  individuals,  at  least 
among  whites  ;  and  in  social  life,  the  constant  effort  is  to  do 
away  the  castes  produced  by  difference  of  fortune,  education, 
and  taste.  The  motto  upon  the  flag  of  America  should  be, 
'  Every  man  for  himself.'  Such  is  the  spirit  of  our  land, 
as  seen  in  our  institutions,  in  our  literature,  in  our  religious 
condition,  in  our  political  contests,  —  for  it  is  this  antagonism 
to  all  corporations,  all  privileged  bodies,  and  castes  of  every 
kind,  which  lies  at  the  root  even  of  the  present  political 
struggle. 

"  We  have,  then,  in  the  United  States  a  curious  condition  of 
things  ;  no  recognized  orders,  and  no  church,  and  yet  much 

VOL.  i.  15 


170  LIFE    OF    JAMKS    H.    PKIiKINS. 

of  the  same  desire  for  action  in  IIKISSOS  which  has  always 
existed,  find  which  must  exist  until  ignorance  and  vice  cease 
from  the  earth.  One  result  of  this  condition  of  things  has 
been  the  production  of  voluntary  associations  to  an  immense 
extent.  1  look,  therefore,  upon  the  system  of  associated 
effort,  now  so  general,  as  a  true  and  vital  production  of  our 
times  ;  liy  means  of  this  system  we  strive  to  supplv  the 
want  of  a  church  and  an  aristocracy.  It  is  a  NI;W  IOHM  of 
social  derelojimrnl  ;  not  a  mere  mechanical  contrivance, 
which  cannot  last,  but  a  true  LIVING  IUODE  OF  ACTION  on 
the;  part  of  society. 

"  1'Yom  this  point  of  view,  all  associated  eiFort  becomes 
highly  interesting,  and  worthy  of  careful  examination.  Like 
other  living  things,  it  is  liable  to  decease,  and,  with  other 
earthly  things,  it  will  in  time  pass  away,  but  still,  like  all 
that  has  life,  it  is  (Jod's  work,  and  should  he  reverently 
dealt  with. 

"  Three  forms  of  associated  literary  rfrort  are  seen  in 
our  day. 

"  First,  that  which  seeks  to  increase  results  by  u  division 
of  labor.  This  is  seen  in  our  reviews,  to  which  dozens  of 
persons  contribute,  whereas,  in  the  last  century,  Johnson, 
Addison,  and  Steele  wrote  their  periodicals  almost  unaided. 
It  is  seen  in  the  encyclopaedias,  to  which  contributors  arc 
co'inted  by  fifties,  while,  in  the  great  works  of  that  kind 
published  a  hundred  years  since,  a  few  did  nearly  ail  the 
labor.  We  have  now  even  a  History  of  England,  written 
by  a  do/en  dilierent  hands  :  while  libraries  innumerable,  the 
result  of  joint  labors,  flow  from  the  press. 

"  The  second  class  of  societies  consists  of  those  who 
gather  numbers,  in  order,  by  numbers,  to  aflect  the  minds 
of  men,  as  well  as  to  act  more  efficiently  for  some  one 
object.  Such  are  the  temperance,  abolition,  and  various 
educational  societies. 

"The   third    class  consists  of  those  which   aim  to  unite 


MANHOOD.  171 

men  by  acquaintance,  common  interests,  and  brotherly 
sympathy  ;  not  for  any  one  especial  object,  but  for  the 
wide  purpose  of  banding  together  in  the  cause  of  learning 
and  religion  those  throughout  the  whole  country  whose 
minds  and  hearts  are  free  to  take  an  interest  in  such  things. 

"  Religious  faith  is  the  basis  of  all  social  and  all  individual 
good.  But  religious  faith  will  no  more  rest  on  authority  in 
this  land.  Think  of  it  what  we  may,  individual  opinion, 
and  not  the  decision  of  a  church,  must  give  us  our  religion. 
There  is  something  in  this  application  of  individualism  to 
religion  which  is  startling  and  terrible  ;  and  no  wonder 
that  many  are  looking  to  Rome  again,  as  to  the  single  bea- 
con-fire which  still  stands  above  this  heaving  sea  of  opinion, 
doubt,  and  denial,  —  the  Eddystone  of  the  ocean  of  religious 
controversy.  To  us  it  appears  they  look  in  vain  ;  that 
beacon-fire,  to  which  the  world  once  owed  its  escape  from 
shipwreck,  is  doomed,  as  we  think,  to  extinction,  though  the 
very  storm  which  will  overwhelm  it  at  last  may  for  the 
time  make  it  burn  the  brighter.  To  us  it  seems  that  the 
whole  course  of  things  is  toward  the  overthrow  of  authority, 
and  the  fullest  reception  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Reformation. 
Where,  then,  is  our  safety  ?  Upon  what  can  our  religious 
faith  rest  in  this  land  ?  It  must  be  upon  the  extension  of 
intelligence  and  virtue,  and  upon  the  influence  of  true  and 
good  men  over  the  ignorant  and  low. 

"  Through  schools,  through  lectures,  through  the  press, 
by  professional  labors,  intelligence,  reverence  for  what  is 
venerable,  respect  for  what  is  GOOD,  love  for  what  is  beauti- 
ful, must  be  spread  abroad.  And  who  can  do  it?  The 
Educated  Men  ;  and  they  only  by  concert  and  union.  The 
writers  of  our  country  must  feel  themselves  called  on  to 
work  for  their  country  and  mankind.  Literature  must  cease 
to  be  an  amusement,  a  mere  pastime,  an  ornamental  thing, 
a  luxury  ;  it  must  lose  its  lightness  and  become  serious,  for 
by  it  are  to  be  worked  out  serious  results.  Books  have  be- 


172  LIFE    OF   JAMES   H.    PERKINS. 

come  our  pulpits,  nncl  newspapers  our  shrines  for  daily 
resort  ;  if  at  those  shrines  we  worship  Mammon  or  Lucifer, 
and  not  the  true  Clod,  woe,  woe  to  us  and  to  our  country. 

"  I  cannot  think  it  a  dream,  then,  that  in  our  land  religion 
must  depend  upon  the  diffusion  of  truth  and  goodness,  mainly 
through  the  medium  of  associated  action. 

"  Man,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  is,  cannot  possess  even 
truth  without  making  poison  from  it,  as  he  makes  whiskey 
from  corn,  —  the  water  of  death  from  the  staff  of  life.  In  his 
hands  freedom  is  distilled  over  into  libertinism,  and  unshac- 
kled thought  ferments,  and  becomes  skepticism  and  atheism. 
Can  this  be  prevented  ?  Will  external  authority,  political 
and  ecclesiastical,  prevent  it  ?  We  think  history  proves  it 
will  not  ;  we  believe  it,  at  any  rate,  hopeless  to  control  by 
authority,  in  our  time  and  in  the  United  States.  We  see 
no  course  open  for  escape,  except  unwearied  toil  on  the  part 
of  those  who  see  our  dangers,  to  spread,  first,  Christian 
faith,  and  second,  thorough  learning. 

"  To  aid  in  spreading  these,  we  believe  God  has  given 
birth  to  the  associated  efforts  of  the  day  ;  we  look  upon  them 
as  rital  forms  of  organization,  destined,  in  connection  with 
the  scattered  fragments  of  the  Church,  and  the  labors  of  in- 
dividual men,  to  supply  for  a  season  the  place  of  that  united 
and  truly  Catholic  Church,  which,  in  God's  own  good  time, 
may  bring  into  one  fold  again  the  scattered  sheep  of  our 
Saviour." 

1819.  "  FREE  INSTITUTIONS.  We  believe  one  half  the 
world  arc  puzzled  by  political  views,  because  they  have 
never  been  led  to  examine  the  self-evident,  commonplace 
truths  on  which  the  science  of  the  statesman,  like  that  of 
the  astronomer,  rests. 

"  One  such  truth  \ve  take  to  be  this,  —  that  by  free  insti- 
tutions we  are  to  understand,  not  those  of  a  representative 
democracy  and  no  others,  but  whatever  institutions  are  best 


MANHOOD.  173 

suited  to  secure  FREEDOM  to  any  given  nation.  A  constitu- 
tion like  that  of  the  United  States,  if  given  to  Russia,  would 
cease  to  be  free  in  its  character,  because  it  would  (at  least 
in  all  probability)  lead  to  utter  anarchy,  and  consequent 
individual  slavery  of  mind,  and  heart,  and  soul.  The  insti- 
tutions of  England,  for  England,  are  in  the  main  as  truly 
free  as  those  of  our  land  are  for  us.  The  representative 
democracy  of  France  at  this  moment  secures  less  freedom 
than  the  aristocratic  monarchy  of  Great  Britain. 

"  Again,  the  whole  subject  of  freedom  and  free  institutions 
is  too  commonly  regarded  entirely  from  an  Athenian  or 
Roman  point  of  view,  not  from  that  which  Christianity 
offers  to  us.  Our  speculations  are  pagan  in  their  basis,  and 
pagan  in  their  results.  It  is  generally  the  aim  of  our  efforts 
for  freedom  to  secure  our  own  rights,  but  not  so  to  place 
ourselves  as  to  be  able  to  secure  the  rights  of  all,  and  do 
our  own  duty  to  all.  The  great  Christian  doctrine,  that 
liberty  comes  through,  obedience,  that  the  whole  value  of 
liberty  lies  in  its  enabling  us  to  be  more  and  more  obedient, 
and  that  whatever  institutions  favor  the  growth  of  a  spirit  of 
obedience  to  God  are  most  truly  free,  —  this  great  doctrine 
is  unheeded,  or  denounced  as  slavish  and  degrading. 

"  Whence  came  that  pithy  motto  which  has  been  so  often 
dwelt  upon  of  late  years,  '  Our  country,  right  or  wrong'  ? 
It  came  from  pagan  patriotism.  It  was  the  very  essence  of 
Spartan  and  Roman  virtue.  But  such  patriotism  is  not  far- 
ther removed  from  Christianity  than  is  the  intense  individu- 
alism which  asks  at  every  moment,  What  are  my  rights  ? 
and  seldom  or  never,  What  are  the  rights  of  my  neighbour  ? 
And  yet,  by  free  institutions  most  men  understand  such  as 
will  give  this  very  spirit  of  selfishness  the  fullest  play,  and 
count  whatever  would  lead  or  would  compel  them  to  respect 
the  claims  of  other  men  as  so  much  liberty  lost,  so  much 
conservatism  and  toryism  left  amid  the  freedom  they  enjoy. 
IIow  can  we  explain  the  Red  Republicanism  of  educated  men 
15* 


174  LIFE    OF   JAMES   H.    PERKINS. 

in  France  ?  How  the  strong  reactionary  spirit  ?  They  are 
both,  we  believe,  born  of  the  same  practical  infidelity,  — 
twins  of  February,  1848.  France,  with  all  her  Pope-restor- 
ing, is  torn  and  ruled  by  those  who  are  filled  with  heathen 
ideas  ;  and  hence  the  danger  of  her  position,  the  impossibil- 
ity of  solving  the  problem  of  her  politics. 

"  Nor  is  it  far  different,  we  fear,  in  Germany  or  Italy. 
The  monarchs  of  Prussia,  Austria,  and  Naples,  in  their  va- 
cillating careers,  have  been  moved  by  no  spirit  of  love  for 
their  subjects,  no  thought  of  the  rights  of  the  people  over 
whom  God  has  placed  them  ;  neither  have  those  people, 
burgesses  or  proletaries,  been  more  considerate  of  the  claims 
of  their  sovereigns,  or  those  of  their  fellow-subjects.  The 
spirit  which  was  present  to  so  great  an  extent  in  the  leaders 
of  our  Revolution,  in  Washington,  Jay,  Jefferson,  Adams, 
Franklin,  —  the  spirit  of  Christian  justice,  the  spirit  which 
urged  them  to  seek  the  good  of  all,  to  secure  the  rights  of 
all,  —  is  unknown,  it  would  seem,  in  these  European  revolu- 
tions. That  spirit  has  enabled  us  to  approach  true  freedom  ; 
without  it,  we  could  never  have  done  so.  When  our  Revo- 
lution was  in  progress,  the  problem  of  our  future  was  com- 
paratively simple,  because  God's  truth  was  in  the  midst  of 
its  movers  ;  the  problem  offered  by  Europe  is  complicated 
and  dark  beyond  expression,  because  in  its  heart  are  work- 
ing human  selfishness  and  human  passion,  and  not  God's 
truth. 

"  At  the  outset,  then,  of  an  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  free 
institutions,  we  should  call  to  mind  these  old  truths  :  —  that 
those  governments  are  truly  free  which  secure  the  freedom 
of  the  people  living  under  them  ;  that  freedom  lies,  not  in 
the  absence  of  restraint,  but  in  the  power  of  obedience  to 
God,  in  the  power  of  doing  our  duty  toward  all  men,  and 
granting  their  just  claims  ;  and  that  free  institutions  are 
impossible  among  a  heathen  people,  so  that  liberty  in  Rome 
now,  if  Rome  be  practically  pagan,  is  as  much  out  of  the 
question  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Tully. 


MANHOOD.  175 

"  These,  we  say,  are  old  truths,  and  yet  we  well  know 
that  many  will  not  admit  them.  At  the  risk  of  being  very 
tedious,  therefore,  we  offer  a  few  illustrations. 

"  When  we  speak  of  civil  freedom,  and  free  governments, 
it  is  always  understood  that  we  speak  of  something  to  be 
desired.  But  the  liberty  which  is  desirable  for  any  man, 
really  good  for  him,  is  not  absolute  liberty,  freedom  from  all 
law,  human  and  divine  ;  —  it  is,  plainly,  relative  liberty, 
freedom  from  all  that  cripples  him,  hinders  his  true  growth, 
from  all  that  keeps  him  down  or  drags  him  down.  But  the 
amount  of  freedom  which  is  good  for  the  man  is  bad  for  the 
boy;  that  which  helps  the  Briton  may  prove  the  ruin  of  the 
Spaniard  or  the  Sicilian.  What  is  true  liberty  for  one  peo- 
ple, therefore,  may  be  licentiousness  for  another;  and  those 
institutions  which  are  the  source  of  life  to  the  former  may 
be  the  means  of  bringing  death  to  the  latter.  But  if  by  free 
institutions  we  mean  something  desirable,  and  if  no  institu- 
tions can  be  absolutely  free,  how  can  we  hesitate  to  give 
the  title  to  those  which  best  secure  the  liberties  of  the  nation 
to  which  they  belong,  and  to  refuse  it  to  such  as  lead  to 
popular  tyranny,  the  despotism  of  a  demagogue,  the  drag- 
ging down  and  holding  down  of  countless  human  souls,  even 
though  these  things  be  done  by  a  representative  democracy, 
or  a  democracy  pure  and  direct  ? 

"  But  if  the  only  freedom  worth  having  or  talking  about 
is  that  relative  liberty  which  is  befitting  the  condition  of  the 
person  or  the  nation,  —  if  we  are  none  the  less  free,  when 
fetterless  and  at  large,  because  the  might  of  gravity  binds 
us  to  the  earth,  and  by  its  very  bond  enables  us  to  move,  to 
turn,  to  stand,  to  be  free,  instead  of  driving  like  leaves  be- 
fore the  wind,  slaves  to  the  mightiest  impulse, —  is  it  not 
clear  that  the  highest  freedom  we  can  attain  to  is  obedience 
to  God's  will,  obedience  to  the  centre  of  spiritual  gravita- 
tion ? 

"  What  is  the  essence  of  slavery  ?     Is  it  not  the  power  of 


176  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

a  fellow-man  over  us,  by  which  our  intellectual  and  spiritual 
progress  is  deadened  or  destroyed  ?  Let  us  be  satisfied, 
that  to  be  absolutely  under  another's  bidding  will  secure  our 
progress  most  effectually  in  every  thing  that  belongs  to  mind, 
heart,  and  soul, —  in  all  that  links  us  to  eternity,  —  and 
such  submission  would  cease  to  be  slavery,  or  slavery  would 
cease  to  be  hateful.  But  no  progress  is  possible  without 
submission  to  the  Infinite  One ;  in  obedience  to  him  lies  the 
source  of  all  growth  ;  his  '  service,'  therefore,  in  the  beauti- 
ful language  of  the  English  Church,  '  is  perfect  freedom.' 
But  we  cannot  serve  God  if  we  fail  to  fulfil  our  duty  to- 
wards all  men,  and  their  just  claims  on  us.  These  things 
granted,  —  and  they  are  but  Christian  truisms,  —  it  is  the 
simplest  corollary  that  freedom  and  free  institutions  are 
impossible  where  paganism  rules,  even  though  it  be  in  the 
capital  of  Christendom  itself. 

"  But  these  commonplaces  are  not  the  only  ones  which 
lie  at  the  foundation  of  a  just  understanding  of  the  nature  of 
free  institutions,  and  a  neglect  of  which,  because  so  simple 
and  self-evident,  hinders  or  makes  useless  all  our  inquiries. 
It  is  never  to  be  forgotten,  for  example,  that  governments, 
that  political  systems,  are  powerless  by  themselves  to  set  a 
people  free,  or  even  to  secure  freedom  when  it  has  been 
obtained  ;  but  that  in  conjunction  with  social  arrangements, 
educational  and  religious  institutions,  and  the  inborn  charac- 
ter of  a  people,  governments  become  of  immense  impor- 
tance;  all  the  other  agents  being  comparatively  uninfluential 
so  long  as  the  political  system  is  adverse  to  Christian  liberty. 
A  just  estimate  of  this  mutual  support  which  Social  institu- 
tions lend  to  Political,  and  Political  to  Social,  would  prevent 
the  exaggerations  of  the  Associationists  on  the  one  side,  and 
those  of  their  blind  opponents  on  the  other.  No  represen- 
tative democracy  could  enable  a  nation  to  live  in  freedom  if 
the  family  were  abolished,  property  made  insecure,  or  re- 
licrion  utterly  neglected  by  the  state.  But  the  home  may 


MANHOOD.  177 

remain  unviolated,  the  earnings  of  the  citizen  untouched, 
and  Heaven  be  appealed  to  hourly,  and  yet  the  influence  of 
a  despotism  like  that  of  Turkey  or  Russia  shall  prove  fatal 
in  countless  ways  to  the  true  liberty  of  heart  and  soul. 
Nay,  it  is  not  despotism  alone  which  may  prove  thus  fatal. 
The  aristocratic  spirit  of  England  exerts  upon  thousands  an 
enslaving  power  ;  the  ultra  democracy  of  Athens  was  as 
deadly  as  the  tyranny  of  the  Caesars  ;  and  even  in  our  own 
pattern  land,  and  with  a  government  which,  for  us,  and 
upon  the  whole,  is  as  good  as  man  has  yet  attained,  —  even 
with  us,  despite  of  homes,  and  property,  and  religion,  the 
popular  element  of  our  political  condition,  acting  through 
the  press  and  public  opinion,  strips  multitudes  of  the  free- 
dom which  they  nominally  enjoy. 

"  True  views  in  relation  to  the  connection  which  exists 
between  Social  and  Political  arrangements  are,  in  our  day, 
peculiarly  needed.  The  masses  of  men  have  never  suffi- 
ciently understood  the  worthlessness  of  laws  and  rulers  to 
secure  freedom  when  the  system  of  society  was  adverse  to 
its  existence.  Even  now,  the  suffering  millions  of  the  Brit- 
ish empire  look  to  Parliament  for  that  which  Parliament  can 
never  bestow  ;  trust  to  free  trade  as  in  itself  a  specific  for 
the  evils  which  spring  from  ignorance,  vice,  and  selfishness  ; 
and  almost  hope  to  put  an  end  to  the  potato-rot  by  the  ballot- 
box.  How  constant  is  the  outcry  against  the  English  gov- 
ernment because  it  does  not  destroy  the  miseries  of  Ireland  ! 
and  yet  the  main  portion  of  those  miseries  England  can  no 
more  do  away  by  legislation,  than  she  can  legislate  away 
the  clouds  which  so  often  threaten  her  harvests.  In  our 
own  country,  even  with  the  wide  diffusion  of  knowledge 
which  has  taken  place,  and  which  has  turned  countless 
minds  to  the  influence  of  social  arrangements  without  mak- 
ing them  converts  to  any  of  the  schools  of  reform,- —  even 
in  these  United  States  men  look  to  the  election  of  a  presi- 
dent or  a  senator  with  a  vague  hope  that  the  triumph  of  one 


178  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

party  or  the  other,  as  their  own  views  incline,  will  bring 
about  results  which  can  follow  only  upon  social  changes. 
The  poor  but  ambitious  mechanic,  galled  by  the  undue  influ- 
ence of  wealth,  trusts  that  the  success  of  some  anti-bank 
candidate  will  do  away  the  inequality  which  poisons  his  life, 
and  turns  with  contempt  from  the  Christian,  who  would  bring 
all  classes  together  without  regard  to  property,  upon  the 
ground  of  equal  excellence  and  intelligence,  as  from  an 
ineffectual  dreamer,  whose  impracticable  schemes  will  never 
remove  the  mischief  they  aim  to  destroy. 

"  But  while,  on  the  one  hand,  the  multitude  have  too  little 
comprehended  the  vast  influence  of  social  institutions  upon 
politics  and  individual  freedom,  there  is,  on  the  other  side,  a 
growing  body  of  thinking  and  enthusiastic  men,  who  are  dis- 
posed to  underrate  the  power  of  political  systems,  and  care 
too  little  for  the  machinery  of  government.  To  them  the 
limits  of  the  veto  power,  the  theory  of  representation,  the 
tenure  of  judicial  offices,  the  mode  of  choosing  judges,  and  a 
hundred  similar  questions,  are  matters  of  no  moment.  So- 
cial reform,  land  reform,  absorb  all  their  energies.  They 
are  not,  what  we  wish  the  ultraists  on  either  side  would  be- 
come, at  once  men  of  to-day  and  of  the  future  ;  advocates 
for  some  small,  but  most  needful  reformation,  and  at  the 
same  time  prophets  of,  and  pleaders  for,  a  reformation 
which  shall  go  to  the  root  of  existing  evils,  and  prepare  the 
way  for  the  second  coming  of  our  Lord. 

"  At  the  threshold,  then,  of  our  inquiry,  we  would  keep 
clearly  in  mlnd,Jirst,  that  those  are  free  governments  which 
secure  the  whole  spiritual  freedom  of  the  persons  living 
under  them  ;  secondly,  that  the  essence  of  freedom  is  a 
complete  capability  of  serving  God  and  man  ;  thirdly,  that 
free  institutions  must  rest  on  Christian,  and  not  pagan,  ideas 
of  liberty  ;  fourthly,  that  no  political  institutions  of  them- 
selves,  unconnected  with  social,  educational,  and  religious 
appliances,  can  regenerate  a  state  ;  and  fft.hly,  that  no  so- 


MANHOOD.  179 

cial,  educational,  and  religious  changes,  of  themselves,  un- 
connected with  political  reforms,  are  able  to  accomplish 
what  is  desired  by  us  all. 

"  There  is  another  thought,  almost  as  simple  and  self- 
evident  as  the  above,  which  meets  us  at  the  outset  of  our 
examination.  It  is,  that  true  freedom,  being  the  capability 
of  serving  God  and  man,  is  not  a  mere  negative  thing,  the 
absence  of  slavery.  Most  men  regard  the  perfection  of  free 
institutions  as  lying  in  the  fact,  that  they  leave  every  man  in 
a  great  measure  to  do  as  he  pleases  ;  they  neither  hinder 
him  nor  help  him  ;  they  are  free  institutions  because  they 
are,  practically,  no  institutions  at  all.  But  to  us  it  seems 
that  a  truly  free  government  will  have  its  positive  as  well  as 
its  negative  side.  It  not  only  will  not  hinder,  but  it  will 
help.  It  is  not  freedom  to  be  let  alone  ;  laissez  faire  is  not 
the  motto  of  Christian  liberty.  The  common  saying,  that 
the  best  government  is  that  in  which  there  is  the  least  legis- 
lation, appears  to  us  an  entire  fallacy.  We  do  not  want  bad 
laws,  despotic  whims,  or  popular  caprices  ;  but  we  do  need 
an  abundance  of  good  laws,  whereby  those  things  may  be 
done  which  can  be  done  only  by  a  nation,  —  laws  to  secure 
the  advance  of  the  higher  and  less  material  interests  which 
the  individual  in  his  selfishness  so  constantly  neglects.  We 
may  trust  every  man  to  manage  in  a  great  degree  his  own 
commercial,  agricultural,  worldly  matters;  the  laissez  faire 
of  the  French  merchants  was  sensible  advice,  for  the  chil- 
dren of  this  world  are  wise  in  their  generation.  But  art, 
science,  literature,  education,  religion,  —  these  things  need 
constant  aid,  countenance,  support,  from  the  nation.  There 
are,  then,  when  we  come  to  discuss  free  institutions,  these 
two  questions: — What  will  hinder  true  freedom  ?  What 
will  advance  and  increase  it  ?  In  the  discussion  of  these 
two  inquiries,  were  they  dealt  with  in  an  exhaustive  manner, 
every  topic,  we  conceive,  would  be  taken  up  which  Grimke, 
Brougham,  De  Tocqueville,  or  any  other  writer,  has  consid- 


180  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

ered,  and  taken  up  under  relations  that  would  make  it  far 
more  intelligible  than  it  can  be  when  out  of  its  natural  and 
vital  connection,  just  where  chance  brings  us  upon  it. 

"  We  have  neither  space  nor  inclination  to  pursue  the 
consideration  of  these  queries ;  but  is  it  not  plain  that,  with 
the  Christian  idea  of  freedom  before  us,  we  at  once  dispose 
of  the  first  topic  which  suggests  itself,  namely,  What  are 
the  adverse  influences  of  despotism,  constitutional  monarchy, 
aristocracy,  democracy,  and  anarchy?  Dispose  of  it,  we 
mean,  by  instantly  rejecting  the  despotism  and  the  anarchy, 
as  being  deadly  to  '  the  complete  capability  of  serving  God 
and  man,'  which  we  have  assumed  as  the  essence  of  free- 
dom ;  and  by  accepting  monarchy,  aristocracy,  and  democ- 
racy, as  being,  each  for  some  state  of  society,  some  point 
of  national  progress,  fitted  to  help,  not  deaden,  this  ser- 
vice of  our  Maker  and  our  brother.  If  we  are  asked,  Why 
accept  them  ?  we  answer,  because  in  England,  as  she  has 
been  and  is,  and  in  these  United  States,  we  see  these  three 
institutions  upholding,  securing,  and  forwarding  the  freedom 
that  comes  from  on  high." 

1849.  "  REPRESENTATIVES  AND  CONSTITUENTS.  —  The 
people  of  the  United  States  exercise  a  direct  power,  through 
the  almost  universal  reception  of  the  doctrine  that  the  repre- 
sentative is  bound  by  the  instructions  of  his  constituents. 
But  it  is  a  most  vital  question,  whether  such  a  power  ought 
to  be  recognized  by  a  statesman,  or  approved  by  a  political 
philosopher.  Out  of  fashion  as  it  is,  we  believe  in  the  view 
which  makes  the  representative  something  much  more  than 
an  agent.  The  essence  of  representation,  to  our  minds,  lies 
not  in  its  convenience,  —  in  the  fact  that,  while  all  the  mil- 
lions of  a  land  cannot  meet  and  deliberate,  some  hundreds, 
who  shall  be  the  channels  through  which  the  wishes  of  the 
millions  may  pass,  can  so  come  together ;  but  it  lies  in  this, 
that  the  people  of  a  neighbourhood  can  select  their  wisest 


MANHOOD.  181 

and  best  man,  and  do  it  with  great  certainty,  while  they  can- 
not judge  of  details  of  statesmanship  with  any  certainty  at 
all.  The  wise  and  good  man,  being  chosen,  becomes,  not 
the  agent  of  those  who  chose  him,  but  their  representative  ; 
he  stands  in  their  place,  and  is  independent  of  them  and  the 
world.  We  may  be  told  that  good  and  wise  men  are  not 
selected,  but  violent,  noisy  partisans  ;  and  why  ;  Because 
of  this  very  doctrine  of  instructions  ;  or  rather,  because  of 
that  overruling  vanity  and  folly  from  which  this  doctrine 
springs.  '  Measures,  not  men,'  has  become  in  practice  the 
American  motto,  and  no  one  can  estimate  the  evil  that  has 
followed  its  adoption.  Were  the  directly  opposite  assumed, 
it  would  be  far  wiser,  —  to  think  only  of  the  men  we  elect, 
and  nothing  of  the  questions  they  are  to  determine.  But 
this,  we  know,  cannot  be  done.  Into  the  ground  of  our  esti- 
mate of  a  man's  wisdom  and  capacity  enters  our  knowledge 
of  his  views  on  certain  great  subjects  ;  and  we  reject  him  as 
a  representative,  if  he  .vitally  differs  from  ourselves  upon 
them.  But  this  is  a  wholly  different  thing  from  dictating  to 
him,  after  he  is  chosen,  how  he  shall  vote  on  the  points  in 
reference  to  which  he,  in  all  human  probability,  knows  a 
hundred  times  more  than  any  member  of  the  majority  that 
undertakes  to  instruct  him.  The  idea  that  the  law-maker  is 
to  obey  orders  causes  us  to  send  blockheads  to  our  legisla- 
tures ;  and  having  blockheads,  instruction,  indeed,  becomes 
needful.  Could  we  return  to  the  doctrine  of  those  who 
wrote  the  Federalist,  —  could  we  make  our  public  men  lead- 
ers, instead  of  servants,  of  the  people,  —  we  should  have 
more  heroes,  and  fewer  demagogues  and  flunkies,  among 
the  honorables  of  the  land. 

"  The  '  divine  right '  of  the  man  of  vast  intellect  and 
upright  character  to  rule  us  is  too  little  recognized.  A 
Washington,  a  Jay,  a  Marshall,  has  a  God-given  power  to 
claim  our  obedience.  Carlyle's  principle  of  hero-worship, 
within  limits  revealed  to  every  man's  conscience,  we  believe 

VOL.  i.  16 


182  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

in,  though  we  cannot  accept  his  heroes.  But  the  opposite 
principle,  of  worshipping  the  most  available,  moulding  the 
common  clay  into  an  idol,  and  bowing  down  to  it,  we  utterly 
detest.  We  can  sympathize,  with  all  our  dislike  of  his  prin- 
ciples, in  the  election  of  a  Jackson,  but  never  in  that  of  a 
Polk." 

1849.  "SOCIALISM.  —  The  question  as  to  the  (rue  rela- 
tions of  CAPITAL  and  WORK  is  the  great  question  of  the 
coming  fifty  years.  No  other,  in  our  estimation,  approaches 
it  in  importance.  The  Christian  religion  has  worked  won- 
ders in  the  world,  but  miracles  remain  to  be  wrought. 
There  have  been  mighty  changes  for  the  better  in  the  rela- 
tions between  the  rich  and  poor,  since  the  Son  of  God  made 
himself  known  by  slow  degrees  to  the  minds  and  hearts  of 
our  ancestors.  But  after  all  these  changes,  we  see  only  the 
more  clearly,  that  the  state  of  society  depicted  so  vividly  in 
'  Mary  Barton,'  a  state  which  is  coming  nearer  to  us  of  the 
Western  world  with  every  day  that  passes,  is  not  the  condition 
of  mankind  which  even  a  kind  and  just  pagan  would  have 
approved,  far  less  that  which  Jesus  would  have  instituted. 
There  must  be,  either  by  individuals  in  the  existing  organiza- 
tion, or  by  individuals  uniting  to  organize  a  NEW  SOCIETY, 
a  far  deeper  application  of  self-denial,  self-sacrifice,  and 
obedience  to  the  dictates  of  Christianity  in  the  arrangements 
of  trade  and  of  manufactures,  or  the  evils  which  now 
threaten  England  will  envelop  every  portion  of  the  globe 
which  is  physically  progressive.  Mr.  Macaulay  and  others 
may  demonstrate,  by  figures  and  tables,  that  the  laboring 
classes  are  far  better  off  now  than  they  were  in  the  time  of 
Charles  the  Second  ;  but  his  tables  omit  one  vital  element,  — 
the  idea  of  comfort  and  well-being  which  men  have  now,  as 
compared  with  the  idea  of  1680.  He  whose  views  are  high, 
whose  tastes  are  refined,  whose  ambition  and  eternal  nature 
are  awakened,  is  tried,  degraded,  ruined,  by  the  very  same 


MANHOOD.  183 

life  which  would  help  and  improve  the  tasteless,  ignorant, 
sensual  clown.  In  our  age  education,  some  degree  of  re- 
finement, and,  above  all,  the  conception  of  rising  in  the 
world,  are  familiar  to  every  man  ;  but  the  physical  inde- 
pendence and  well-being  of  the  laborer  do  not  improve  as 
fast  as  the  requisitions  of  his  immortal  nature  under  the  cul- 
ture we  give  him." 

This  last-quoted  passage,  from  the  North  American 
Review,*  is  but  a  part  of  the  testimony  which,  amidst 
the  present  world-wide  struggle  between  Industrial  Feu- 
dalism and  Organized  Industry,  Mr.  Perkins  felt  prompt- 
ed to  bear,  —  and  to  bear,  too,  through  the  organ  which 
addresses  itself  most  authoritatively  to  the  conservative 
classes  of  the  United  States.  How  far  he  had  gone  in 
asserting  the  claims  of  Socialism  to  respect  may  be  in- 
ferred from  the  following  explanatory  note  of  the  Edi- 
tor, the  publication  of  which  is  due  to  the  memory  of 
Mr.  Perkins. 

"  Your  article  placed  me  in  a  dilemma.  I  had  already 
written  and  printed  in  the  forthcoming  North  American  Re- 
view an  article  on  '  French  Ideas  of  Democracy  and  a 
Community  of  Goods,'  which  is  as  conservative  as  yours 
is  —  what  shall  I  call  it  ?  — reformatory,  progressive,  radi- 
cal. Yet  I  am  persuaded  that  we  both  think  much  alike 
about  social  and  political  affairs,  as  we  augur  nothing  but 
evil  from  institutions  that  are  not  based  on  Christianity.  The 
proof  of  this  fundamental  similarity  of  doctrine  under  super- 
ficial differences  is,  that  far  the  larger  portion  of  the  two 
articles  can  stand  side  by  side  in  the  same  number  without 
any  danger  to  the  reputation  of  the  Review  for  consistency. 
But  the  whole  could  not  thus  stand,  and  I  did  not  wish  to 

*  For  October,  1849,  pp.  4G8,  469. 


184  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

sacrifice  the  whole  because  opinions  were  expressed  or  im- 
plied in  certain  parts  which  I  could  not  accept.  I  have  con- 
cluded to  take  what  seemed  to  be  a  middle  course,  and  the 
best  that  was  possible  under  the  circumstances.  Instead  of 
sentencing  the  whole  either  to  the  press  or  the  flames,  I 
have  printed  nineteen  twentieths  of  it,  and  burnt  the  other 
twentieth.  I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  put  words  into  your 
mouth,  but  I  thought  you  would  prefer  to  say  to  the  world  a 
portion  of  what  you  thought,  rather  than  to  keep  silence 
altogether.  Your  praise  of  the  Tribune  newspaper,  a  sen- 
tence or  two  in  your  remarks  on  the  judiciary,  and  the  con- 
cluding portion  of  what  you  wrote  about  the  doctrines  of  the 
Associationists,  are  left  out.  The  rest  is  printed  as  you 
wrote  it,  except  that  the  want  of  space  obliged  me  to  leave 
out  two  of  the  extracts,  and,  in  order  that  the  article  might 
not  come  abruptly  to  a  close,  I  was  forced  to  add  a  couple 
of  sentences  in  place  of  your  peroration,  which  I  had  left 
out.  What  is  expressed  in  those  sentences  I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  will  agree  to. 

"  But  these  points  cannot  be  fully  discussed  in  a  letter.  I 
have  written  thus  much  only  to  excuse  myself  for  the  omis- 
sion of  portions  of  your  article.  Your  first  purpose  was  to 
gratify  Judge  Grimke  by  a  complimentary  article  on  his 
work  in  the  North  American  Review  ;  and  this  end  is  se- 
cured by  the  appearance  of  the  article  in  its  present  shape. 
On  other  points,  I  fear,  an  amicable  difference  of  opinion  must 
always  exist  between  us.  My  instincts,  as  well  as  my  reflec- 
tions and  studies,  tend  strongly  to  Conservatism,  or  Toryism, 
as  some  would  call  it,  while  your  natural  bias  is  towards  radi- 
cal reform.  Yet  we  have  both  the  same  end  in  view,  and  in 
our  choice  of  means  we  both  rely  upon  moral  and  religious 
culture.  You  would  try  some  form  of  Communism,  in  order 
that  men  might  act  out  their  Christianity  more  fully  towards 
each  other  ;  while  I  believe  that  they  must  first  become 
thoroughly  Christian  in  their  hearts  and  lives  before  any 


MANHOOD.  185 

scheme  of  Communism  is  practicable.  When  all  evil  pas- 
sions are  eradicated,  when  not  only  envy,  hatred,  and  mal- 
ice, but  indolence  and  emulation  and  the  love  of  exclusive 
possessions,  are  done  away,  men  can  live  and  work  together 
like  brothers,  without  the  presence  of  those  incentives  which 
now  maintain  their  activity.  When  they  become  as  pure  as 
the  earliest  converts  to  Christianity  were,  they  can  live  to- 
gether as  those  converts  did,  though  even  in  that  band  were 
found  an  Ananias  and  a  Sapphira."  * 

I  shall  leave  the  duty  of  explaining  Mr.  Perkins's  re- 
lations to  Socialism  to  our  mutual  friend,  Benjamin 
Urner,  whose  high  integrity  in  every  walk  of  life  gives 
weight  to  his  words. 

"  Cincinnati,  July  7,  1850.  You  wish  to  learn  from  me 
what  were  the  relations  of  our  late  friend,  James  H.  Per- 
kins, to  the  Social  Reform  movement ;  how  far  he  inclined 
towards  Phalansterian,  and  how  far  towards  Christian  Social- 
ism ;  whether  his  preaching  turned  much  upon  that  class  of 
topics  ;  and  if,  in  his  philanthropic  movements,  and  in  his 
proposed  new  religious  society,  he  seemed  to  aim  ultimately 
at  a  practical  social  organization,  &c.,  &c. 

"  I  think  I  can  confidently  state,  that  Mr.  Perkins  was  a 
Christian  socialist,  as  I  understand  that  term  to  be  used  by 
most  writers.  He  certainly  could  not  be  classed  as  belonging 
to  any  distinct  and  well-defined  school  of  socialists  that  has 
hitherto  existed.  He  was  neither  a  Communist  nor  a  Phalan- 
sterian ;  but  his  discourses  and  lectures  of  late  years  turned 
mainly  upon  social  reformatory  topics.  The  substitution  of 
cooperation  in  industry  and  commerce  for  competition  was  a 
very  favorite  idea  of  his,  as  a  means  of  bringing  men's  daily 
lives  into  conformity  with  the  requirements  of  Christianity  ; 

*  Dated  Cambridge,  September  1st,  1849. 

16* 


186  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

and  that  was,  I  think,  the  only  distinct  socialist  idea  to  which 
he  had  attained.  The  miseries  and  sufferings  of  his  fellow- 
men,  the  evils  of  poverty  and  pauperism,  and  the  vices  and 
crimes  thence  resulting,  seemed  to  be  constantly  present  to 
his  mind,  and  hence  his  interest  in  social  reform  movements. 
He  held  the  belief,  that  there  must  exist  a  social  science,  but 
he  did  not  believe  that  it  had  yet  been  discovered.  Some 
six  or  seven  years  since,  he  delivered  several  lectures  on 
Sunday  evenings,  from  his  pulpit,  on  Owen  and  Fourier,  and 
their  social  theories,  with  the  view  of  inducing  his  hearers 
to  study  and  investigate  the  social  question.  He  gave  Fou- 
rier the  credit  of  truthfulness,  sincerity,  earnest  devotion  of 
a  long  life  to  the  good  of  his  race,  and  the  possession  of 
profound  genius  ;  but  he  considered  his  theory  fallacious, 
as  being  founded  upon  the,  to  him,  erroneous  doctrine  of  the 
essential  goodness  of  human  nature.  Granting  that  funda- 
mental premise  to  be  true,  he  thought  Fourier's  system  was 
profoundly  plausible.  '  According  to  the  views  of  man  held 
by  Fourier,  man  wants  the  baker  and  the  butcher  ;  but  ac- 
cording to  my  view,  he  is  sick  and  wants  the  doctor.'  So  he 
expressed  himself.  Some  three  years  since,  Mr.  Perkins 
called  on  me  and  inquired  as  to  a  fund  which  he  had  heard 
was  being  made  up  for  the  purchase  of  the  writings  of 
Fourier  and  of  his  disciples,  for  circulation  among  inquirers, 
and  contributed  to  that  fund  voluntarily,  and  encouraged  that 
object  as  one  highly  useful.  When  Mr.  Allen  was  an- 
nounced, in  February,  1848,  as  having  arrived  here  for  the 
purpose  of  lecturing  upon  Association,  'Mr.  Perkins  made 
the  occasion  the  subject  of  his  discourse  on  Sunday  morning 
from  his  pulpit,  and  urged  his  hearers  to  attend  that  gentle- 
man's lectures,  and  to  study  the  problem  of  socialism.  He 
fvlso  joined  Mr.  Allen  in  his  course,  and  delivered  one  lec- 
ture himself,  in  which  he  treated  what  he  called  the  common- 
sense  view  of  Association  and  Social  Reform.  These  two 
discourses  or  lectures  were  reported  and  published  here  in 


MANHOOD.  187 

the  Morning  Herald,  and  I  think  they  were  republished  in 
the  Harbinger.  In  the  constitution  of  the  Relief  Union  of 
this  city,  —  an  organization  coextensive  with  the  city,  for  the 
purpose  of  relieving  the  destitute  poor  of  the  city,  without 
reference  to  sect  or  class,  of  which  society  Mr.  Perkins  may 
be  said  to  be  the  father,  —  in  that  constitution,  as  prepared 
by  him,  is  introduced  a  provision  for  stated  regular  meetings 
to  be  held  by  the  society,  for  the  discussion  of  the  socialist 
question,  '  Whether  it  be  possible  to  abolish  pauperism,  and 
if  so,  by  what  means  ;  or,  if  impossible,  whether  some  mode 
of  relieving  the  poor  could  not  be  devised  better  than  that 
of  alms-giving.'  And  in  his  published  discourse,  setting 
forth  his  principles,  objects,  and  plans  of  proceeding  for  the 
proposed  new  religious  society,  he  also  made  provision  for 
the  same  purpose. 

"  I  remember  hearing  him  make  the  remark,  in  a  conver- 
sation some  three  or  four  years  since,  that  the  Fourierists 
seemed  to  him  to  be  animated  by  a  more  self-sacrificing, 
humanitary,  and  Christian  spirit  than  any  class  of  men  of 
that  time.  Of  the  universal  prevalence  of  selfishness,  social 
evils  and  imperfections,  he  was  very  sensibly  conscious ; 
and  of  the  hopeless  inefficiency  of  all  existing  political  and 
religious  organizations  as  means  to  a  higher  and  truer  state 
of  man,  he  was  also  convinced.  Of  men's  '  pietizing '  on 
Sunday,  and  yielding  themselves  up  to  selfish  tendencies 
during  the  week,  he  thought  and  felt  as  all  truly  enlight- 
ened men  now  do.  For  a  great  change  in  the  state  of  man, 
individual  and  collective,  he  ardently  aspired.  But  he  had 
no  consistent  philosophic  views  as  to  the  method  of  effecting 
the  change.  In  the  Phalansterian  doctrines  of  passional 
attraction,  of  a  divine  social  code,  in  harmony  and  adapta- 
tion to  which  man's  soul  is  constituted  and  impassioned,  of 
the  possibility  of  so  coordinating  each  human  being  to  his 
fellows,  to  nature,  and  to  God,  as  that  universal  integral 
development,  universal  unity,  and  harmony  shall  result,  in 


188  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

the  absence  of  restraints  and  constraints  of  reason, —  in  this 
he  did  not  believe.  He  seemed  to  cling  rather  to  the  com- 
mon idea,  that,  in  the  formation  of  human  virtue  and  the 
true  Christian  character,  a  conflict  between  duty  and  incli- 
nation is  necessary.  He  seemed  to  trust  in  no  method  for 
effecting  a  change  in  the  condition  and  well-being  of  man- 
kind, such  as  he  hoped  for  and  conceived  to  be  possible, 
other  than  that  of  persuading  men  to  do  rightly.  V\  e  may 
know  what  right  conduct  is,  unerringly,  from  the  teachings 
of  Christ ;  and  to  bring  men's  lives  into  conformity  with  the 
life  of  Christ,  the  means  is  an  appeal  to  their  conscience. 
This  means  having  been  in  operation  for  many  centuries, 
without  resulting  in  the  desired  change,  he  hoped  for  success 
in  future,  not  by  the  adoption  of  new  means,  but  by  a  more 
vigorous  and  better  systematized  application  of  the  old.  In 
short,  he  was  not  a  social  philosopher,  but  a  Christian  pld- 
lanthropist,  who  sympathized  with  socialism  because  it  is 
in  sympathy  with  his  Christian  philanthropy. 

"  Mr.  Perkins  frequently  spoke  of  the  inadequate  compen- 
sation which  many  classes  of  laborers  receive,  particularly 
women,  and  argued  that  it  was  the  Christian  duty  of  employ- 
ers and  of  purchasers  to  pay  what  the  necessities  of  the 
employed  required,  not  what  their  necessities  compelled 
them  to  accept ;  and  according  to  this  rule  he,  I  believe, 
practised.  I  remember  selling  him  a  ream  of  writing- 
paper,  and  naming  the  common  price,  but  stating  that  the 
manufacturer  for  whose  account  I  sold  it  authorized  me  to 
dispose  of  it  for  a  less  sum  rather  than  miss  making  sales. 
Mr.  Perkins  insisted  on  paying  the  higher  price,  as  probably 
the  more  just  one.  A  more  conscientious  man  it  would 
probably  be  ditlicult  to  find  than  Mr,  Perkins.  He  was,  I 
believe,  very  reluctant  to  go  in  opposition  to  what  he  knew 
was  pleasing  to  his  intimate  friends  ;  but  when  he  was  con- 
vinced that  duty  required  it,  he  could  act  with  heroic  disre- 
gard of  their  ill-founded  prejudices.  An  occasion  of  this 


MANHOOD.  189 

kind  occurs  to  me,  which  I  will  mention.  The  socialists 
and  reformers  in  Cincinnati,  on  the  occasion  of  Fourier's 
birthday,  in  April,  1848,  celebrated  the  progress  of  social- 
ism, as  manifested  by  the  French  Revolution  of  February. 
A  committee  for  the  invitation  of  guests  to  the  festival  was 
raised,  and  Mr.  Perkins  was  requested  to  give  his  name  and 
services  as  one  of  that  committee.  He  promptly  acceded 
to  the  request,  and  invitations  were  accepted  and  responded 
to,  which  would  have  been  treated  with  no  respect  had  not 
his  name  been  connected  with  them.  By  this  act  he  be- 
came in  a  degree  identified  with  '  Fourierism,'  and  persons 
who  before  could  not  hear  the  word  mentioned  with  pa- 
tience now  began  to  think  that  socialism  could  not  be  so 
very  bad  after  all." 

The  deliberateness  of  judgment,  moderation,  extreme 
caution,  yet  independence  in  obeying  his  mature  convic- 
tions of  duty,  which  characterized  Mr.  Perkins  in  the 
advocacy  of  socialism,  were  yet  more  distinctly  mani- 
fested in  regard  to  our  great  national  problem,  the  lim- 
itation and  removal  of  slavery.  But  here  again  my 
friend,  so  far  as  possible,  shall  be  his  own  interpreter. 
The  passages  already  given  from  his  letters  while  in 
the  West  Indies  will  show  how  early  in  life  his  indignant 
disgust  was  excited  against  the  institution  of  slavery  ; 
and  the  following  extracts  will  prove  how  ready  he  was 
at  all  times,  calmly,  yet  unflinchingly,  to  uphold  what 
he  saw  to  be  the  right.  The  remarks  in  relation  to 
fugitive  slaves  are  of  special  interest  at  a  moment  when 
so  many  prominent  political  aspirants  have  slipped  on 
the  leash  of  the  slave  power,  and  have  volunteered  as 
catchpolls. 

1836.     "SLAVE  EDUCATION.  —  The  so-called  friends  of 


190  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

the  negro  may  be  divided  into  two  great  classes,  —  those  who 
look  on  him  as  a  brute,  and  those  who  think  him  a  man.  If 
the  former  wish  him  free,  it  is  that  he  may  have  more  yam, 
hominy,  and  sleep  ;  the  latter  would  break  his  chains,  be- 
cause the  enchained  man  can  never  properly  perfect  the 
powers  that  belong  to  him  as  a  man.  One  of  the  first  class, 
after  a  visit  to  slave  lands,  will  often  defend  slavery,  because 
the  African  has  better  feed  and  a  wider  sty  than  the  English 
and  German  peasants.  Should  one  of  the  second  class  go 
with  him,  he  would  think  of  the  palsied  intellect,  the  stran- 
gled affections,  the  broken  sense  of  right,  and  the  entire 
moral  stupor,  that  are  scarce  separable  from  slavery,  how- 
ever kind  and  Christian  the  slave-owner.  The  first  would 
say,  '  The  slave  is  happy  ;  he  wants  no  more  than  he  has ' ; 
the  last  would  think,  '  How  miserable  this  man,  that  he 
knows  not  even  his  degradation  ! ' 

"  To  those  who  belong  to  the  class  of  animalists,  and  who 
regard  freedom  as  a  means  to  present  enjoyment  merely, 
this  paper  is  not  addressed.  We  cannot  go  so  far  back,  at 
present,  as  to  discuss  the  question  with  them.  We  would 
now  speak  to  those  who  believe  the  negro  to  be  in  kind  A 
MAN,  who  believe  freedom  to  be  invaluable  as  a  means  to 
intellectual  and  moral  improvement,  and  who  believe  it 
every  man's  duty  to  assist  those  properly  within  his  influ- 
ence to  improvement,  and  therefore  to  freedom.  To  all 
such  we  state  but  a  truism,  when  we  say  that,  if  to  the  slave 
present  freedom  would  be  the  means  of  improvement,  pres- 
ent freedom  is  his  right ;  but  if,  in  consequence  of  his 
unfitness  to  use  freedom  aright,  or  because  of  laws  that  de- 
grade the  free  blacks,  present  freedom  would  not  be  a  means 
whereby  he  may  improve,  that  then  it  is  not  his  right,  nor  is 
his  master,  by  any  principle,  bound  to  free  him. 

"  To  the  little  child,  present  freedom  would  not  be  a 
means  of  improvement,  and  he  is  kept  under  restraint ;  to 
the  idiot  and  insane  man  it  would  not  be,  and  we  confine 


MANHOOD.  191 

them,  even  when  not  likely  to  injure  others  ;  we  confine 
them  for  their  own  sake. 

"  But  though  the  parent  does  right  to  restrain  his  son,  be- 
ing a  child,  what  would  we  think  of  him  should  he  do  nothing 
to  fit  his  son  to  become  free  ?  Though  he  that  has  charge 
of  a  lunatic  is  not  only  just,  but  kind,  when  he  binds  his  pa- 
tient even  with  fetters  of  iron,  if  need  be,  how  unjust  and 
inhuman  would  all  think  him,  should  he  use  no  exertion  to 
restore  the  poor  wretch  to  reason  !  And  what  is  the  slave  ? 
He  is  a  little  child,  needing  restraint,  needing  punishment, 
but  more  than  all  needing  education.  He  is  a  man  void  of 
sense,  whose  limbs  it  may  be  needful  to  fetter,  that  he  may 
be  cured  of  his  disease,  and  fitted  to  serve  and  to  advance 
himself. 

"  If  the  negro  be  in  kind  a  man  ;  if  man  be  immortal,  and 
destined  ever  to  advance  in  intellectual  and  moral  perfect- 
ness  ;  if  to  this  advancement  freedom  of  will  and  self-de- 
pendence be  essential ;  and  if  it  be  every  man's  duty  to 
assist  his  fellows,  —  then  it  must  be  that  the  negro,  however 
degraded  and  unworthy  now  to  be  free,  still  has  the  right, 
not  to  liberty,  but  to  that  process  ivhich  will  Jit  him  for  lib- 
erty ;  and  it  must  also  be  the  duty  of  all  that  can  influence 
him  to  urge  their  influence  to  this  end  ;  it  must  be  that  the 
slave-owner  is  bound  to  educate  him,  —  that  those  who  can 
influence  the  slave-holder  are  bound  to  enforce  this  duty. 

"  In  this  faith  we  speak,  not  as  abolitionists,  not  as  agita- 
tors, not  as  wishing  to  excite  in  any  passion  or  unkind 
feeling,  but  as  Christians,  who  think  the  African  a  man, 
having  the  privileges  of  a  man,  and,  above  all,  the  privilege 
of  improvement.  We  are  for  ulterior  freedom  and  imme- 
diate action  that  will  fit  for  freedom.  Were  we  now  in 
New  England,  however,  even  this  opinion  we  should  think 
it  unwise  to  publish  ;  but  standing  as  we  do,  upon  the  limits 
of  the  Slave  States,  and  knowing  that,  of  the  little  circle  our 
voice  will  reach,  many  are  slave-holders,  we  speak  with 


192  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

more  boldness  than  if  afar  off;  for  we  have  no  fear  that 
calm  argument  addressed  to  the  slave-holders,  and  published 
in  a  Slave  State,  will  be  mistaken  by  any  for  agitation.  But 
while  we  say  this,  we  would  dissent  wholly  from  the  doctrine 
that  slavery  is  a  mere  political  question.  It  is,  and  the  laws 
of  all  Europe  and  America  relative  to  the  slave-trade  recog- 
nize it  as  being,  a  MORAL,  question,  in  which  every  man,  as  a 
man,  is  interested.  The  means  by  which  slavery  shall  be 
done  away  in  any  State  belong  to  politics  and  that  State  ;  the 
propriety  and  duty  of  doing  it  away  belong  to  morals  and 
the  race. 

"  We  are,  as  we  have  said,  for  an  education  which  will 
fit  the  slave  for  freedom.     By  this  we  do  not  mean  that  he 
should  learn  at  once  to  read  and  write  ;  that  he  should  study 
geography,  grammar,  and  arithmetic.     No  ;  the  education 
which  the  bondman  needs  is   that  of  the  character,  —  that 
which  will  govern  action.     A  judicious  father  educates  his 
son  by  teaching  him  to  restrain  his  impulses,  to  seek  his  best 
interests,  to  follow  the  path  of  duty  ;  little  by  little  he  lifts 
him  to  manhood,  giving  him  one  right  after  another,  and 
ever-increasing  freedom,  until  imperceptibly  all  restraint  is 
done  away.     In  many  of  the  West  India  Islands  the  British 
government  acted  on  this  system  ;  it  forbade  excessive  pun- 
ishment ;  it  gave  the  slave  a  right  to  prosecute  his  master  ; 
it  appointed  '  protectors  of  the  slave ' ;  it  gave  every  slave 
so  much  time,  so  much  land,  a  day  to  sell  the  produce,  and 
a  right  to  carry  it  to  market,  —  the  proceeds  were  all  his  own. 
Many  of  the  planters  carried  on  a  continued  traffic  with  their 
own  slaves,  and  paid  them  daily  for  eggs,  poultry,  and  fruit. 
In  this  way  the  slave  learned  to  respect  the  rights  of  others, 
in  order  that  they  might  respect  his ;  he  learned  to  labor  for 
his  own  good,  and  to  love  labor,  so  directed  ;  he  found  it 
needful  to  restrain  his  impulses,  and  adopt  principles  of  ac- 
tion ;    self-dependence,   foresight,  and  forethought   became 
familiar  to  him  ;  he  saw  the  value  of  justice,  of  confidence, 


MANHOOD.  193 

of  morality  ;  his  moral  powers  were  developed  ;  he  became 
more  and  more  a  man,  and  more  and  more  fitted  for  perfect 
liberty  ;  and  when,  upon  the  1st  of  August,  1834,  the  slaves 
of  Antigua,  where  there  were  fifteen  to  every  white  man, 
were  made  absolutely  free,  what  was  the  consequence  • 
Neither  bloodshed  nor  tumult,  but  a  continuance,  and  even 
increase,  of  prosperity  ;  the  slaves  had  become  men,  and 
like  men  acted  and  labored. 

"  Such  was  the  effect  of  governmental  education  ;  but  that 
of  the  individual  slave-owner  may  do  infinitely  more.  An 
instance  of  very  thorough  and  effectual  education  of  this 
kind  came  to  our  knowledge  some  years  since.  A  gentle- 
man in  Cuba  was  called  upon  to  take  charge  of  a  plantation 
upon  which  were  three  or  four  hundred  negroes  of  a  noto- 
riously bad  character.  His  resort  was  at  once  to  the  whip, 
and  he  soon  distinguished  himself  by  his  severity.  But  hav- 
ing observed  the  absence  of  all  proper  feeling  in  the  slaves, 
and  rightly  supposing -this  to  be  in  a  great  measure  the 
cause  of  their  misbehaviour,  he  set  about  a  reform.  First, 
he  made  them  acquainted  with  their  rights  under  the  Spanish 
law,  and  also  with  his  rights  ;  he  gave  them  warning  that  he 
should  punish  them  if  they  interfered  with  his,  and  showed 
them  how  to  obtain  redress  if  he  meddled  with  theirs.  He 
next  made  known  to  them  a  code  of  laws  for  the  estate, 
giving  them  rights  not  given  by  the  law  of  the  island.  By 
this  code  he  made  it  penal  for  any  white  man  to  insult  or 
violate  the  wife  or  daughter  of  any  slave  ;  to  take  property 
from  any  ;  to  strike  any,  unless  with  the  appointed  instru- 
ment of  punishment,  and,  except  in  urgent  cases,  after  a 
trial  before  him  ;  the  women  were  governed  by  female  dri- 
vers, and  punished  only  by  women  ;  theft,  adultery,  and 
other  crimes  among  the  slaves  themselves  were  punished 
severely  ;  every  morning,  like  an  Eastern  sovereign,  he  held 
court,  heard  all  complaints,  received  the  evidence  of  all 
parties,  and  did  justice  as  he  best  might.  Punishment,  by 

VOL.  i.  17 


194  LIFE    OF  JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

this  system,  became  inevitable,  and  was  recognized  as  justice, 
and  not  revenge.  By  pursuing  tbis  system  thoroughly,  by 
placing  confidence  in  tbose  that  deserved  it,  and  by  never 
deceiving  them  himself,  he  in  a  few  years  brought  his  re- 
fractory blacks  to  such  a  state,  that  the  whip  was  abandoned  ; 
the  desire  to  gain  the  good  opinion  of,  and  to  stand  fair  with, 
their  fellows  made  all  work  cheerfully  ;  and  a  friend  who 
visited  the  plantation  two  years  since  told  us  he  had  seen  a 
slave  faint  in  the  field,  rather  than  be  supposed  desirous  of 
'  shirking.'  Indeed,  so  strong  was  the  feeling  of  duty  among 
the  slaves,  that  a  rebellious  one  was  put  down  at  once  by 
his  fellows  ;  he  could  not  withstand  the  public  opinion  among 
them. 

"  Any  one  acquainted  with  the  course  pursued  by  Fellen- 
berg  in  the  education  of  the  low  and  vicious  of  Switzerland, 
will  recognize  the  system  we  have  just  sketched  as  be- 
ing essentially  the  same  ;  in  both  cases  the  result  was  suc- 
cessful. 

"  But,  alas !  there  are  few  like  Fellenberg,  and  fewer, 
perhaps,  like  the  planter  of  whom  we  have  spoken.  The 
main  hope  for  the  education  of  the  slaves  rests  upon  the  legis- 
latures of  the  Slave-holding  States.  Let  them  take  measures 
to  learn  exactly  what  has  been  the  result  of  protective  meas- 
ures in  other  slave  lands  ;  let  them,  from  the  experience  of 
others,  satisfy  themselves  that  it  is  sound  policy,  as  well  as 
Christian  duty,  to  elevate  the  enslaved  black,  and  we  may 
then  have  some  faint  hope  of  seeing  the  bond  go  free  ;  but 
we  cannot  discern  even  a  ray  of  hope  in  any  other  direction. 

"  As,  by  the  supposition,  all  fear  of  trouble  and  bloodshed 
from  the  mode  of  emancipation  proposed  will  be  done  away, 
the  only  objection  remaining  to  the  freedom  of  the  black  is 
this,  that  he  will  become  our  fellow  in  all  things,  which  will 
not  be  agreeable.  To  this  we  need  only  say,  if  you  are  sat- 
isfied it  is  your  duly  to  free  the  slave  when  fit  for  freedom, 
it  is  needless  to  talk  of  possible  results,  however  disagreea- 


MANHOOD.  195 

ble  :  if  his  freedom  will  end  in  doing  MORE  MORAL  WRONG 
than  it  cures,  keep  him  enslaved,  but  do  not,  to  offset  the 
commands  of  duty,  present  the  dictates  of  taste.  Or  the 
objection  may  assume  this  form.  If  the  black  be  set  free, 
however  quiet,  he  will  at  last  drive  the  white  from  the  coun- 
try by  outworking  him,  by  getting  the  capital  into  his  own 
hands,  for  the  white  cannot,  in  Southern  lands,  compete  with 
him.  To  this  we  answer,  that  it  is  yet  doubtful  if  the  white 
cannot  compete  everywhere  with  the  negro,  and  very  far 
from  being  true,  that  the  best  hand-laborer  will  have  the  most 
capital ;  intellect  does  much  more  than  brute  power  to  accu- 
mulate wealth  ;  and,  indeed,  were  all  the  premises  of  the 
objection  true,  what  Christian  man  could  urge  it  as  a  fair 
conclusion,  that  slavery  ought  still  to  exist  ?  The  premises, 
in  substance,  allege  that  God  has  fitted  the  negro  only  to 
live  in  Southern  countries  by  fair  means  ;  the  conclusion  is, 
that  therefore  foul  means  should  be  used  to  enable  the  white 
to  live  there.  To  the  "man  that  thinks  slavery  no  WRONG, 
the  argument  may  be  irresistible  ;  to  those  whom  we  speak 
to,  it  must  be  without  force. 

"  From  what  has  been  said,  if  we  have  spoken  clearly,  it 
will  be  seen  that  we  believe  in  Gradual  Emancipation,  not, 
however,  meaning  by  that  term  what  is  usually  meant.  We 
do  not  believe  it  expedient  or  right  to  free  the  slaves  by  in- 
stalments,—  so  many  one  year,  and  so  many  the  next.  The 
laws  of  Slave  States,  touching  free  blacks,  prevent  freedom 
from  becoming  a  means  of  improvement.  Nor  have  we  any 
greater  faith  in  setting  free  a  generation  of  pickaninies,'  the 
children  of  slaves,  and  of  necessity  undergoing  no  course 
of  parental  education  that  would  fit  them  to  act  like  freemen. 
These  kinds  of  gradual  emancipation  give  liberty,  but  strip 
it  of  its  main  power,  its  true  value.  But  let  a  course  of 
legislation,  acting  upon  the  whole  slave  population,  and  fitted 
to  raise  the  character  of  that  multitude,  be  persisted  in  ;  let 
those  that  sway  public  opinion  give  their  weight,  not  only  to 


196  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

humanity,  but  to  the  plan  pursued  by  the  Cuba  planter  ;  let 
the  religious  and  moral  not  only  think,  but  feel,  on  this  sub- 
ject, and  we  may  then  have  the  hope  of  seeing  the  slaves, 
father  and  child,  old  and  young,  all  brought  to  that  point 
when  all  may  be  made  free,  uninfluenced  by  the  degrading 
laws  that  Slave  States  feel  bound  to  pass  respecting  free  ne- 
groes. They  may  be  made  free,  not  necessarily  to  vote  and 
to  govern,  —  that  is  no  essential  point  of  freedom  ;  nor  to 
mix  socially,  and  intermarry,  with  the  white, —  how  that  shall 
be  must  depend  on  the  will  of  the  whites  ;  but  free  to  use 
their  will,  intellect,  conscience  ;  free  to  learn  the  truth  ; 
free  to  worship  God,  and  to  grow  toward  that  perfection 
for  which,  if  they  be  indeed  men  as  we  are,  God  has  fitted 
them. 

"  To  the  man  that  denies  the  negro  to  be  possessed  of 
the  same  powers  with  himself,  our  argument  can  have  no 
weight ;  to  the  man  that  has  no  faith  in  eternity  and  an 
eternal  growth,  it  can  have  none  ;  to  him  that  thinks  it  no 
duty  of  his  to  aid  his  fellows,  it  can  have  none  ;  and  lastly, 
to  him  with  whom  worldly  interest  is  almighty,  it  can  have 
none,  —  and  alas!  how  many,  and  how  many  honest  men 
too,  do  these  classes  contain  !  But  if  there  be  any  who  think 
it  their  duty  and  high  privilege  to  help  others  in  their  onward 
progress,  and  if  they  number  the  black  among  those  others, 
they  will,  we  feel  assured,  see  that  the  law  which  binds  the 
father  to  educate  the  son  which  God  giveth  him  binds  also 
the  slave-owner  to  educate  the  child  that  is  born  his  slave. 
How  he  may  best  be  educated  is  a  question  of  expediency  ; 
what  we  would  urge  is  the  propriety  and  policy  of  action  by 
the  slave-holders  to  ascertain  what  mode  is  the  best,  and  of 
immediate  action." 

1837.  "  THE  PROPOSAL  TO  ANNEX  TEXAS  TO  THE 
UNITED  STATES.  —  The  question  is  fairly  before  the  people, 
Shall  we  take  Texas  into  our  confederacy  ? 


MANHOOD.  197 

"  To  the  Slave  States  this  question  will  be  vital  ;  not  in 
the  sense  in  which  the  advocates  of  annexation  would  use 
that  term,  but  in  this  sense, —  if  Texas  be  received,  it  will 
be  either  with  the  stipulation  on  both  sides  that  slavery  shall 
never  exist  there,  or  without  that  stipulation.  If  the  Slave 
States  agree  to  such  an  exclusion,  they  will  give  the  Free 
States  a  pledge  of  true  abolition  principles,  which  will  wholly 
change  the  relations  of  the  two.  If  they  refuse,  they  will 
take  a  step  that  can  mean  but  this  :  — '  We  wish  to  see 
slavery  continued,  extended,  and  created,'  — and  the  inevita- 
ble result  must  be  DISUNION. 

"  It  is  useless  to  hide  the  truth  ;  it  is  useless  to  doubt  that 
the  moral  feeling  of  the  world  will  compel  the  North  to  sep- 
arate from  a  country  which,  from  motives  of  worldly  expe- 
diency, dares  to  countenance  the  abstract  right  of  man  to 
enslave  man.  When  the  South  defends  slave-holding  by 
stating  the  impossibility  of  setting  her  slaves  free,  she  uses 
an  argument  that  the  world  can  understand,  and  that,  with 
open  brow,  may  be  pleaded  before  the  throne  of  God  ; 
but  if,  to  increase,  or  keep,  political  power,  she  takes  one 
step  towards  the  increase  of  slavery,  or  the  extension  of  it 
within  her  limits,  it  must  be  with  a  face  turned  earthward, 
and  a  cheek  burning  with  shame  at  her  own  want  of  moral 
courage,  or  else  with  full  defiance  of  man  and  God,  and 
a  brazen  front,  which  it  needs  no  prophet  to  foretell  will  soon 
be  scathed  by  the  lightnings  of  the  Almighty. 

"  The  South  has  said  that  she  was  opposed  to  the  intro- 
duction of  slavery,  and  the  world  has  believed  her.  If  such 
be  the  truth,  she  can  use  but  one  argument  in  favor  of  receiv- 
ing Texas,  slavery  being  permitted  therein.  It  is  this, — 
I  have  been  placed  where  I  am  by  others,  and  what  they 
did  I  agree  to  have  been  anti-Christian  ;  but.  being  where 
I  am,  I  shall  be  ruined  in  all  worldly  matters  unless  I  now 
repeat  their  act,  —  that  is,  do  myself  what  I  consider  anti- 
Christian. 

17* 


198  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  It  needs  no  argument  to  show  that  this  is  precisely  the 
reasoning  of  the  cutthroat  who  has  been  ruined  by  the  good 
luck  or  knavery  of  another,  —  the  reasoning  of  the  man  that 
burns  your  house  because  his  father  has  left  him  destitute, 
or  so  arranged  matters  that  he  will  soon  be  ruined  unless  he 
burns  it. 

"  Where  would  the  man,  who,  in  these  times,  should 
attempt  to  save  his  property  by  fraud  and  wrong-doing,  be 
more  scorned  than  at  the  South  ?  And  will  the  South  go 
and  do  likewise  ? 

"  But  if,  despite  all  that  has  been  said  to  the  contrary,  the 
Slave-holding  States  at  last  join  with  Governor  McDuffie  in 
thinking  this  peculiar  institution  their  chief  blessing,  security, 
and  stronghold,  —  what  then?  CAN  THE  DEAD  AND  THE 

LIVING    BE    ONE  ? 

"  We  care  not  to  point  to  any  other  view  of  this  question. 
If  it  should  be  agreed  that  Texas,  if  admitted,  shall  be  a  Free 
State,  —  a  thing  not  to  be  hoped,  —  vast  obstacles  still  re- 
main to  her  coming  among  us  ;  but  for  the  present  we  must 
consider  her  as  about  to  be,  if  received,  a  Slave  State. 

"  One  word  farther.  We  trust  the  South  will  not  identify 
opposition  to  the  proposed  annexation  with  advocacy  of 
abolition.  The  last  is,  to  the  slave-holder,  an  unjust  inter- 
ference with  his  rights  ;  but  who  can  dispute  the  right  of  all 
to  discuss  the  admission  of  Texas  among  us  ?  Who  will 
have  enough  of  despotic  blood  in  his  veins  to  deny  the  right 
of  all  to  discuss  this  question  in  every  point  of  view  ?  The 
North  is,  almost  to  a  man,  opposed  to  the  propositions  of 
McDuffie's  defence  of  slavery  ;  to  admit  Texas,  a  Slave 
State,  would  be  either  to  agree  in  them,  or  to  commit  an 
acknowledged  crime.  With  the  North,  then,  we  do  not 
think  the  question  one  to  be  discussed.  With  the  South,  the 
alternative  is  this,  —  to  gain  some  small  present  power,  but 
defy  the  world,  and  wholly  alienate  the  North  ;  or  to  stand 
politically  where  she  now  does,  and  with  a  far  higher  claim 


MANHOOD.  199 

to  the  sympathy  and  respect  of  both  Christendom  and  her 
fellows,  than  at  present  ;  for  let  her  refuse  to  aid  in  extend- 
ing slavery,  and  her  gain  in  moral  would  far  exceed  her  loss 
in  political  influence." 

1S37.  "  UNITED  STATES  LAW  RESPECTING  FUGITIVE 
SLAVES.  —  The  groundwork  of  all  law  in  Ohio,  Indiana, 
Illinois,  Michigan,  and  Wisconsin  is  the  ORDINANCE  OF 
1787 ;  by  an  express  provision  of  which,  nothing  therein 
contained  could  be  altered  but  by  the  consent  both  of  the 
original  States  and  of  the  people  of  the  Territory,  since  di- 
vided into  the  several  parts  above  named. 

"This  Ordinance  established  as  a  fundamental  law  entire 
and  unqualified  freedom,  but  contained  this  stipulation,  that 
fugitives  from  labor  into  the  Territory  from  the  original 
States  might  be  reclaimed.  Soon  after,  the  Federal  Consti- 
tution was  formed,  which  contained  a  stipulation  that  fugi- 
tives from  labor,  from  any  State  into  any  other,  might  be 
reclaimed.  On  this  point,  then,  the  Ordinance  and  Constitu- 
tion differed  ;  the  former  confining  the  right  of  reclaiming 
fugitives  to  the  original  States,  the  latter  extending  it  to  all. 

"  But  in  the  formation  of  the  Constitution  no  part  of  the 
Northwest  Territory  had  any  voice,  and  of  course,  by  the 
provision  of  the  Ordinance,  nothing  therein  was  superseded 
by  the  Constitution.  On  this  ground  it  is  contended,  that  no 
fugitive  from  labor,  unless  from  one  of  the  original  States, 
can  be  now  reclaimed  in  Ohio.*  But  we  do  not  think  this 
argument  valid  ;  for,  when  the  original  States  passed  the 
Constitution,  they  thereby  agreed  to  extend  the  stipulation 
of  the  Ordinance  respecting  fugitives  from  labor  to  all  the 
States  ;  and  when  the  citizens  of  Ohio  applied  for  admis- 
sion among  the  United  States,  under  the  Constitution,  they 

*  Speech  of  S.  P.  Chnse  before  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas  of 
Hamilton  County,  Ohio,  March  11,  1837. 


200  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

virtually  agreed  on  their  part  to  take  that  instrument  in 
place  of  the  Ordinance,  whenever  the  two  were  at  variance. 
We  have,  therefore,  both  parties  agreeing  to  the  extension 
of  the  stipulation  of  the  Ordinance  to  all  the  States. 

"  But  there  is  another  provision  of  this  Ordinance  bearing 
upon  the  question  before  us  ;  it  is  that  which  guarantees  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Territory,  forever,  the  trial  by  jury 
(Art.  2)  ;  and  which  also  says,  that  no  man  shall  be  de- 
prived of  his  liberty  or  property  but  by  the  judgment  of  his 
peers,  or  the  law  of  the  land.  As  there  is  nothing  in  the 
United  States  Constitution  which  conflicts  with  this  provis- 
ion, it  still  retains  whatever  force  it  originally  had.  And 
what  was  that  ?  The  iirst  part  of  the  provision  is  unquali- 
fied, and  under  it  we  are  either  entitled  to  a  trial  by  jury  in 
all  cases,  or  the  law  may  deprive  us  of  it  in  all  cases  ;  and 
by  the  last,  the  law  of  the  land  may  substitute  what  it  sees 
fit,  instead  of  a  judgment  by  one's  peers.  That  this  provis- 
ion does  not  entitle  us  to  trial  by  jury  always  was,  in  sub- 
stance, decided  by  the  Supreme  Court  of  Ohio  (5  0.  R. 
133),  when  they  held  that  the  law  might  appoint  other 
means  to  determine  rights  of  property,  though  the  State 
Constitution  says  (Art.  8,  §  8),  'that  the  right  of  triiil  by 
jury  shall  be  inviolate.' 

"  We  fear,  therefore,  that  the  United  States  law  cannot 
be  held  to  violate  the  letter  of  the  Ordinance,  in  the  con- 
struction that  would  be  put  upon  it  by  any  of  our  courts  ; 
and  must  now  turn  to  the  Federal  Constitution,  and  examine 
the  law  in  question  by  that. 

"  The  words  of  the  stipulation  contained  in  our  national 
instrument  are  these:  — 'No  person  held  to  service  or 
labor  in  one  State,  under  the  laws  thereof,  escaping  into 
another,  shall,  in  consequence  of  any  law  or  regulation 
therein,  be  discharged  from  such  service  or  labor;  but  shall 
be  delivered  up  on  claim  of  the  party  to  whom  such  seivice 
or  labor  shall  be  due.' 


MANHOOD.  201 

"  The    first   question  is,   whether,   under    this  provision, 
Congress  have  a    right  to    pass   any    law    on   the  subject. 
The  legislative  power  of  that  body  is  derived   either  from 
express  provisions,  as  in  the   section  preceding  the  one  just 
quoted,  where  it  is  authorized   by  general  laws  to  prescribe 
the    manner  in  which   the   public  acts   and   records  of  one 
State  may  be  proved  in  another;  or  from  the  general  pro- 
vision empowering  it  to  make  all  laws  that  shall  be  neces- 
sary and    proper    for  carrying    into   execution  the  powers 
vested  by  the  Constitution  in  the  government  of  the  United 
States.    (Art.  1.)    Now,  with  respect  to  fugitives  from  labor, 
there  is  certainly  no  express   provision  ;  and   it  is  equally 
certain,  that  the  clause  above  given  vests  no  power  in  the 
government  of  the  United  States.     How,  then,  can  Congress 
legislate  on  the  subject  ?     Is  there  any  power  bestowed  on 
the  general  government,  to  carry  which  into  execution  re- 
quires a  law  to  be  passed  affecting  fugitives  from  labor  ?     If 
the  precedent  relied  on  by  the  court  in  this  case  have  any 
weight,  it  must  be  because  it  has  gone  upon  the  ground  that 
there  was  some  such  power  ;  as  in  those  well-known  cases 
where  concurrence  of  opinion  has  settled  the  constitution- 
ality of  some  point,  it  has   been   upon  the  basis  that  some 
power  directly  given  the  government  could  not  be  carried 
into  execution  without  the   law  then  under  debate  ;  that  is, 
the  opinion  settled,  not  the  existence  of  a  power,  but  the 
necessity  of  a  certain  law  to  carry   into  execution  a  power 
plainly    given.     Now,   if  any   court  can    find  a  power   so 
given,  which  cannot  be  carried  into  execution  without  a  law 
touching  fugitives  from   labor,   it  may  use,  as  the   United 
States  court  has  done,  the  doctrine  of  precedent  from  con- 
tinued  legislation,  but  not  otherwise.     The   clause   of  the 
Constitution  above  cited  does  not,  as  we  conceive,  give  such 
a  power,  nor  does  it  need  either  a  Federal  or  State  law  in 
order  to  be  operative  ;  for  the  claimant  might  seize  the  per- 
son claimed  as  now,  and  the  question  of  ownership  be  as 


202  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

fully  tried  as  at  present,  upon  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus ;  and 
the  claimant  proving  his  claim  might  take  his  slave,  under 
the  Constitution,  without  any  law. 

"  Such  a  gift  of  power,  then,  cannot,  we  think,  le  found  ; 
and  iue  hold  it,  therefore,  demonstrable,  that  Congress  have 
no  right,  under  the  Constitution,  to  legislate  on  this  sub- 
ject.. (Chase's  Speech,  pp.  19,  20,  21.) 

"  This  view  is  supported  by  the  provision  respecting  pub- 
lic records,  already  referred  to.  Both  of  the  first  two  sec- 
tions of  the  fourth  article  are  to  determine  relations  between 
States  ;  the  first  says  that  full  faith  shall  be  given  in  each 
State  to  the  public  records  of  all  others,  and  authorizes 
Congress  to  regulate  by  law  the  proof  and  effect  of  such 
records.  Would  Congress  have  had  this  power  without 
this  express  authority?  No  one  can  think  it.  Well,  the 
second  section  says,  first,  that  the  citizens  of  each  State 
shall  have  the  privileges  of  citizens  in  all  the  States  ;  next, 
that  a  person  flying  from  a  State  where  he  is  charged  with 
crime  to'another,  shall  be  delivered  up  to  the  executive  of 
the  State  whence  he  fled  ;  arid  last,  that  no  person  bound  to 
service  in  one  State  shall  fly  to  another,  and  by  any  law 
thereof  be  released  from  his  obligation,  but  shall  be  deliv- 
ered to  the  parly  entitled  to  his  services  ;  and  here  the 
whole  subject  is  dropped,  no  power  is  given  to  Congress  to 
pass  laws,  nor  to  the  government  in  any  shape.  The  pur- 
pose of  these  two  sections  was  to  place  these  subjects,  as  far 
as  the  States  were  concerned,  upon  a  sure  basis,  and  not  to 
leave  them  to  the  common  law  of  nations.  They  are  in  the 
nature  of  a  treaty  between  independent  governments,  and, 
having  settled  that  certain  things  shall  and  shall  not  be  done, 
leave  it  with  those  governments  to  say  by  law  how  they 
shall  or  shall  not  be  ;  making,  however,  one  exception,  and 
with  respect  to  one  subject  giving  the  law-making  power  to 
a  third  party; — which  exception,  if  there  had  been  nny 
doubt  before,  would  surely  prove  that  where  the  third  party 


MANHOOD.  203 

was  not  expressly  ordered  to  regulate  the  manner  of  doing 
or  preventing  the  things  spoken  of,  there,  beyond  doubt,  the 
power  of  regulation  should  remain  with  the  two  interested 
parties.  (Chase's  Speech,  pp.  21,  22.) 

"  Moreover,  that  these  provisions  are  in  the  nature  of  a 
treaty  is  known  by  the  fact  that  all  of  them,  but  this  respect- 
ing fugitives  from  labor,  were  in  the  old  Articles  of  Confed- 
eration ;  they  there  gave  the  Federal  government  no  power, 
but  were  mere  articles  of  compact.  There  the  clause 
respecting  records  stood,  without  any  law-making  power 
attached  to  it.  When  the  Constitution  was  formed,  Congress 
were  empowered  to  legislate  on  this  subject ;  while  the 
others  remained  as  before,  and  a  new  clause  was  added 
in  the  form  which  the  whole  had  under  the  old  Confedei'a- 
tion.  These  considerations,  urged  with  great  force  by  Mr. 
Chase,  seem  to  us  unanswerable. 

"  But  we  have  another  point  yet  to  consider.  It  is  this. 
Even  if  Congress  have  a  constitutional  right  to  legislate 
respecting  fugitives  from  labor,  is  the  existing  law  constitu- 
tional ? 

"  Of  this  law  we  have  as  yet  given  no  account ;  but  of  all 
the  legislative  monsters  that  disgrace  American  statute- 
books,  this  is  surely  one  of  the  strangest  and  vilest.  Act 
of  February  12,  1793,  §  3.  By  this  act,  the  claimant  of  any 
fugitive  from  labor  may  seize  said  alleged  fugitive,  without 
writ  or  legal  authority  of  any  kind,  take  him  or  her  before 
any  justice  of  the  peace  of  any  city,  town,  or  county  ;  and 
having  by  written  or  oral  evidence  or  affidavit  established 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  justice  his  claim,  he  shall  be  enti- 
tled to  a  certificate,  under  which  he  may  carry  the  alleged 
fugitive  from  the  State,  and  no  one  may  hinder.  The  per- 
son arrested  or  seized  has  no  notice  given,  no  time  to 
collect  witnesses,  no  power  of  cross-examination,  no  jury 
or  bench  of  magistrates  to  hear  the  cause,  no  appeal,  no 
right  to  a  new  trial  in  any  form.  The  justice  receives  no 


204  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

pay  from  the  United  States,  but  must  look  to  tlie  claimant, 
and  may  receive  a  thousand  dollars  as  a  fee.  He  cannot 
be  removed  for  what  he  does  by  the  Federal  government, 
for  he  is  a  State  officer ;  he  cannot  be  touched  by  the 
State  for  what  he  does  as  a  Federal  officer ;  and  stands 
irresponsible,  bribed  by  the  law  to  take  bribes,  vested  with 
the  power  of  judging  instantly,  upon  ex  parle  evidence, 
upon  the  oath  of  one  interested  man,  and  authorized  to 
decide  finally  and  for  ever  upon  the  freedom,  probably  the 
perpetual  freedom,  of  as  many  as  may  be  dragged  to  his 
bar.*  Is  it  said  that  in  this  country  such  a  power  will  be 
rarely  exercised,  we  must  answer,  that  it  is  exercised  con- 
tinually. Since  we  began  this  article,  we  have  heard  of  a 
case  wherein  it  was  shown  in  all  its  excellence!  A  mulatto 
boy,  who  had  been  in  the  service  of  a  barber  at  Cincinnati 
for  a  year  or  more,  was  one  morning,  while  shaving  a  cus- 
tomer, laid  hold  of  and  carried  off  to  the  magistrate's,  as  a 
fugitive  from  labor.  His  master  went  to  an  attorney  and 
asked  him  to  hurry,  and  try  to  help  the  lad  ;  he  went,  found 
that  the  magistrate  had  been  unable  to  attend  to  the  case, 
and  had  sent  the  parties  to  another  justice.  The  lawyer  has- 
tened to  him  ;  he  had  been  unable  to  hear  the  case  also, 
and  the  claimant  and  colored  boy  had  crossed  the  street  to 
the  mayor's.  To  the  mayor's  office  the  advocate  posted,  and 
was  there  just  in  time  to  see  the  certificate  sealed,  which 
consigned  the  youth  to  hopeless  servitude ! 

"  It  needs  no  argument  to  prove  that  this  law,  which  in- 
vests the  lowest  judicial  individuals  of  our  country  wilh  a 
process  more  summary,  one-sided,  final,  and  unquestionable 

*  We  know  of  no  provision  bv  which  the  question  of  freedom  may 
be  tried  in  a  Slave  State,  but  by  habeas  corpus.  Tlie  hopelessness  of 
a  fair  trial  under  that,  when  one  party  holds  the  other  as  his  slave, 
has  the  magistrate's  certificate,  and  is  among  his  friends  and  depend- 
ents, while  the  other  is  ignorant,  away  from  those  that  know  him, 
without  money,  and  must  bear  the  burden  of  proof,  is  self-evident. 


MANHOOD.  205 

than  any  other  known  among  us, —  and  that,  too,  with  respect 
to  an  almost  certain  loss  of  freedom, —  is  utterly  opposed 
to  the  whole  spirit  of  our  Constitution  and  laws.  The  Star- 
Chamber  of  Elizabeth  was  far  less  fearful,  far  less  anti- 
republican  ;  and  had  this  law  been  put  into  execution  against 
whites  instead  of  blacks,  it  could  not  have  stood  one  year. 

"  But  it  is  not  only  opposed  to  the  purpose  of  our  Consti- 
tutions, but  is  at  open  variance  with  their  language.  That  of 
the  Union  says,  '  The  right  of  the  people  to  be  secure  in 
their  persons,  against  unreasonable  seizures,  shall  not  be 
violated  ;  and  no  warrant  shall  issue  but  upon  probable 
cause,  supported  by  oath.'  (Amend.,  Art.  4.)  And  again, 
'  No  person  shall  be  deprived  of  liberty  without  due  process 
of  law.'  (Ibid.,  Art.  5.)  If  these  clauses  have  force  or 
meaning,  the  law  under  consideration  is  wholly  unconstitu- 
tional. Let  no  one  say,  that,  because  the  law  in  this  case 
makes  the  individual  arrest  the  proper  proceeding,  there- 
fore this  is  legal  process  ;  those  words  have  a  technical 
meaning,  and  the  reference  to  the  warrant  shows  that  the 
Constitution  used  them  in  that  meaning. 

"  So  stand  the  Constitution  and  laws  of  the  United  States 
respecting  blacks  claimed  as  runaway  slaves ;  for  upon 
them  the  weight  of  suffering  falls.  Let  us,  for  the  sake  of 
deepening  our  impressions,  suppose  a  like  power  given  as 
respects  whites.  For  instance,  a  white  and  black  live  side 
by  side,  equally  respectable  and  industrious.  A  man  comes 
to  town  and  accuses  the  black  of  being  a  slave,  of  having 
been  unfortunate,  not  criminal  ;  he  is  taken  at  once,  con- 
victed upon  the  oath  of  his  accuser,  and  delivered  up  to 
slavery.  Another  person  accuses  the  white  of  havincr  been 
guilty  of  burglary  ;  suppose  the  law  authorized  this  accuser 
to  drag  the  accused  before  a  magistrate,  and  have  him  con- 
victed at  once  by  affidavit,  without  cross-examination,  and 
without  time  given  to  collect  counter-evidence,  and  allowed 
the  magistrate  to  send  him  to  Louisiana  in  charge  of  his 

VOL.  i.  18 


206  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

accuser,  to  prove  his  innocence  there  if  he  could,  but  held 
to  be  guilty  unless  he  could  prove  it,  and  held,  too,  with  all 
those  disadvantages  which  the  slave  labors  under.  What 
would  the  subjects  of  the. tyrant  of  Austria  say  to  such  a  law 
as  this  ?  And  should  the  white  accused  of  crime  fare 
better  than  the  black  accused  of  misfortune  ?  But  the  black 
is  claimed  as  property,  it  is  said.  Well,  and  the  claimant  is 
opposed  by  the  black  as  counter-claimant ;  he  is  both  prop- 
erty and  owner.  And  what  should  we  say  of  the  law  that 
should  allow  the  Mississippian  to  come  here,  claim  a  white 
man's  whole  wealth,  establish  his  claim  by  oath,  and  carry 
it  home  with  him  ?  This  is  done  in  the  case  of  the  black 
considered  as  property. 

"  But  it  is  said  again,  the  alleged  fugitive  from  justice 
from  another  State  is  claimed  from  us,  and  we  deliver  him 
up  under  the  United  States  law  without  scruple  ;  and  we 
have  no  more  right  to  think  the  black  will  not  be  tried  fairly, 
when  we  deliver  him  up,  than  that  the  accused  criminal  will 
not  be.  To  this  we  need  but  say,  that  the  executive  of  a 
State,  or  the  State  itself,  claims  and  takes  in  one  instance, 
a  private  individual  in  the  other  ;  and  that  we  do  know  that, 
in  all  the  Slave  States,  the  white  criminal  stands  an  infinitely 
better  chance  to  have  justice  done  him,  than  a  black  held  as 
a  slave  under  a  certificate  from  the  magistrate  of  a  Free 
State  does  to  obtain  freedom.  And  as  citizens  of  the  United 
States,  as  men  and  Christians,  we  have  no  right  to  shut  our 
eyes  on  this  knowledge  ;  if  we  do  so,  on  the  ground  that  we 
are  not  called  on  to  know  the  laws  of  other  States,  and  so 
the  freeman  is  enslaved,  surely  we  are  no  better  than  kid- 
nappers in  the  eyes  of  God.  But  no  thinking  man  will  con- 
found the  case  of  the  criminal,  who  is  demanded  by  a 
State,  taken  by  a  public  officer,  carried  to  the  spot  where 
it  is  said  he  committed  a  crime,  and  must  there  be  tried, 
and  his  guilt  proved  to  a  jury,  he  having  been  first  presented 
by  a  grand  jury,  and  that  of  the  slave,  taken  by  an  individ- 


MANHOOD.  207 

ual,  carried  his  friends  know  not  where,  and  who,  to  ob- 
tain his  freedom,  must,  in  a  strange  land  and  under  countless 
disadvantages,  prove  he  is  free,  instead  of  having  it  proved 
that  he  is  not  free. 

"  Many  trials  have  been  made  to  have  the  existing  law 
altered,  but  neither  North  nor  South  is  willing  to  move  in 
the  matter.  The  right  of  Congress  to  pass  a  law,  although 
very  debatable,  will  not  be  disputed  by  any  court,  we  sup- 
pose ;  the  policy  of  a  Federal  provision,  and  the  acquiescence 
hitherto,  will  prevent  it.  But  THE  EXISTING  LAW  is  CLEARLY 

OPPOSED    TO    THE    WORDS    OF    THE    CONSTITUTION." 

Against  the  disgraceful  Black  Laws  of  Ohio  Mr.  Per- 
kins bore  earnest  testimony  in  public  and  in  private,  and 
was  indefatigable  in  demanding  more  righteous  legislation. 
He  was  a  steady  opponent,  also,  to  the  admission  of 
Texas,  except  as  a  Free  State  ;  and  as  a  preacher, 
public  debater,  and-  through  the  press,  used  all  the 
influence  he  could  exert  against  the  extension  of  slavery. 
But  though  an  undisguised  adversary  of  the  slave  power, 
in  all  its  policy, — partisan,  ecclesiastical,  and  commer- 
cial,—  he  yet  sustained  no  such  relation  to  the  Anti- 
slavery  movement  as  to  be  called  an  Abolitionist.  What 
he  said  and  did  was  as  an  individual,  on  his  own  respon- 
sibility, according  to  his  own  judgment,  and  in  bis  own 
way.  He  was  a  free  man,  who  would  never  permit 
others  to  impose  servile  restraints  upon  his  liberty  of 
conscience,  utterance,  or  action  ;  but  he  scrupulously 
checked  himself,  and  was  ever  watchful  against  fanati- 
cism, partial  views,  or  revolutionary  outbreaks.  His 
most  positive  manifestation  of  respectful  sympathy  to- 
wards the  negro  race  was  in  his  treatment  of  the  colored 
citizens  of  Cincinnati.  And  here  he  set  an  example  well 
worthy  of  being  universally  followed.  He  visited  them 


208  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

at  their  homes  and  places  of  business,  addressed  their 
public  assemblages,  lectured  in  their  lyceum,  preached 
in  their  pulpits,  encouraged  their  associated  action,  con- 
tributed to  their  charitable  funds,  and,  above  all,  cooperat- 
ed in  the  establishment  of  their  schools.  When,  on  one 
occasion,  the  enthusiastic  Hiram  Gilmore,  who,  for  a 
number  of  years,  was  the  teacher  of  a  colored  school, 
made  an  appeal  to  the  public,  Mr.  Perkins  preached  on 
the  subject,  and  raised  a  contribution  from  among  his 
people  in  their  behalf,  —  which  unlocked  for  response 
was  received  with  equal  pleasure  and  surprise.  Pie  was 
pertinacious  also  in  demanding,  either  that  colored  children 
should  have  free  access  to  the  public  schools,  or  else 
that  a  fair  proportion  of  the  school-tax  levied  on  their 
parents  should  be  appropriated  to  their  use.  For,  what- 
ever difficulties  he  felt  as  to  the  immediate  measures  of 
the  Abolitionists,  he  had  not  a  doubt  in  regard  to  the 
eventual  emancipation  of  the  slaves  throughout  our  land  ; 
and  was  convinced  of  the  urgent  duty,  as  well  as  policy, 
of  fitting  the  colored  race  for  full  participation  in  all  so- 
cial, civil,  and  religious  privileges.  Chief  among  the 
means  of  thus  preparing  them  for  the  functions  of  repub- 
lican equality  was,  of  course,  Education. 

EDUCATION,  indeed,  regarded  as  a  science  and  an 
art,  was  a  cause  that  always  called  out  Mr.  Perkins's 
highest  enthusiasm.  One  of  his  first  efforts  as  an  edi- 
tor, when  he  took  charge  of  The  Western  Monthly  Mag- 
azine, in  1832,  was  to  call  the  attention  of  his  fellow- 
citizens  to  the  importance  of  elevating  the  standard  of 
teaching,  of  fitting  instructors  for  their  responsible  office, 
and  securing  the  most  thorough,  physical,  intellectual,  and 
moral  training  for  the  children  of  all  classes.  In  the 


MANHOOD.  209 

pages  of  that  review,  as  well  as  in  the  Chronicle  and  Mir- 
ror, in  lucid  and  complete  summaries  he  presented  the 
plans  of  Pestalozzi,  Fellenberg,  and  of  the  German  and 
French  governments,  and  thenceforth  used  every  accessi- 
ble means  for  advancing  the  Free  School  System  of  Ohio. 
But  not  with  pen  alone  did  he  aid  this  great  republican 
movement.  From  his  entrance  upon  Western  life  until 
his  death,  he  took  an  efficient  part  in  upholding  the  high 
character  'of  the  Cincinnati  schools.  "  I  know,"  says 
the  patriarch  among  the  Trustees  and  Visitors  of  the 
Queen  City,  Mr.  Nathan  Guilford,  "  that  Mr.  Perkins 
was  one  of  the  most  active,  punctual,  and  zealous  friends 
of  education  among  us,  and  that  to  his  counsel  and  labors 
our  schools  are  much  indebted  for  their  past  progress  and 
present  prosperous  condition.  I  have  just  finished  the 
examination  of  over  one  hundred  and  thirty  schools,  with 
their  six  thousand  scholars,  and  could  not  but  feel  what 
a  source  of  gratification  their  success  must  be  to  all  who 
directly  or  indirectly  have  labored  for  their  establish- 
ment." And  Mr.  William  Greene,  who  for  many  years 
has  made  it  his  pride  and  pleasure  to  be  the  friend  alike 
of  teachers  and  children  in  Cincinnati,  adds  this  tribute 
to  the  worth  of  Mr.  Perkins's  exertions  :  —  "  He  was 
three  times  elected  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Examin- 
ers of  the  Common  Schools, — resigned  twice, — and 
under  his  last  election  continued  a  member  until  his  death. 
He  was  three  years  in  succession  elected  a  member  of 
the  Board  of  Visitors  of  the  Schools,  and  for  one  year 
was  its  president.  In  these  several  stations  his  labors 
were  remarkable  for  punctuality  and  completeness.  He 
never  left  unfinished  or  to  be  done  by  others  the  work 
that  properly  belonged  to  himself.  So  quietly,  however, 
were  his  public  offices  performed,  that  the  amount  of  his 
18* 


210  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

exertions  might  easily  have  been  overlooked  except  by 
careful  observers.  He  never  did  any  thing  for  eflect, 
and  therefore,  though  always  busy,  attracted  little  atten- 
tion from  the  busy  world.  He  was  eminently  one  of 
those  —  the  truly  great  —  who  are  felt  in  a  thousand 
minute  and  deep  relations  to  society,  exerting  the  most 
invigorating  influence,  without  being  seen,  or  wishing  to 
be  seen.  Thus  was  it  in  his  relations  to  our  schools." 

Mr.  Perkins  was  also  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trus- 
tees in  the  Cincinnati  College  for  several  years,  and  for 
a  considerable  time  acted  as  its  secretary.  It  was  in  this 
capacity  that  he  came  into  intimate  intercourse  with  Pro- 
fessor O.  M.  Mitchell,  whose  friendship  he  justly  valued, 
and  with  whose  devoted  labors  he  rejoiced  to  cooperate. 
How  high  was  Mr.  Mitchell's  estimate  of  his  services 
will  appear  from  the  following  letter. 

"  I  became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Perkins  soon  after  my  ar- 
rival in  this  city  in  1832,  but  our  intimacy  dates  from  about 
1836,  when  the  Cincinnati  College  was  reorganized,  and  he 
became  one  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  that  institution.  In 
1839-40  we  were  associated  in  forming  a  Society  for  the 
Promotion  of  Useful  Knowledge,  which  continued  to  exert 
some  influence  in  our  city  for  two  years,  and  opened  the 
way  for  the  enterprise  which  ended  in  the  erection  of  the 
Cincinnati  Observatory.  Mr.  Perkins,  as  a  Trustee  of  the 
College,  as  a  Director  in  the  Society  first  named,  and  as  one 
of  the  Board  of  Control  of  the  Cincinnati  Astronomical  So- 
ciety, always  exerted  a  most  powerful  influence  over  those 
with  whom  he  was  associated.  He  was  one  of  the  very  few 
on  whom  the  most  implicit  reliance  might  be  placed  in  the 
hour  of  greatest  difficulty.  He  was  slow  to  adopt  any  new 
idea,  or  to  receive  into  his  confidence  new  enterprises ;  but 
when,  after  deliberation,  he  once  gave  his  hearty  approval 


MANHOOD.  211 

to  any  great  or  noble  undertaking,  it  was  not  merely  an  ap- 
proval. He  was  ever  ready  to  work  for  it,  and  to  contribute 
in  every  way  to  promote  its  accomplishment. 

"  From  the  organization  of  the  Cincinnati  Astronomical 
Society,  Mr.  Perkins  was  one  of  its  officers  ;  and  although  our 
pursuits  were  different,  yet  in  all  the  efforts  which  I  have 
been  making,  in  and  out  of  the  Observatory,  if  to  others  I 
looked  for  pecuniary  aid,  it  was  to  Mr.  Perkins  I  went  for 
that  intellectual  sympathy  so  grateful  to  one  who  is  obliged 
to  struggle  in  almost  absolute  isolation.  His  mind  was  emi- 
nently clear  and  comprehensive,  and  although  he  was  no- 
wise devoted  to  pure  science,  yet  he  never  failed  to  show 
so  ready  and  strong  an  apprehension  of  whatever  topic  was 
fairly  brought  before  it,  that  one  was  sure  of  a  just  appre- 
ciation of  his  views,  however  new.  The  last  day  we  spent 
together  was  in  the  Observatory.  He  wished  to  understand 
the  new  methods  of  observing  recently  introduced  in  this 
institution,  and  to  compare  them  with  those  elsewhere  em- 
ployed. For  this  purpose  long  and  minute  explanations 
were  made  of  details,  to  which  previously  he  could  have 
given  no  attention.  Yet  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  compre- 
hended the  entire  scope  of  the  problem  ;  and  had  he  lived, 
he  would  have  presented  to  the  world  a  luminous  exhibition 
of  the  relative  advantages  of  these  methods  of  scientific  re- 
search. It  was  his  intention  to  write  upon  the  subject,  and 
I  presume  an  unfinished  paper  will  be  found  among  his 
manuscripts." 

Necessity  and  inclination  conspired  to  bring  Mr.  Per- 
kins into  yet  nearer  relations  with  the  band  of  educators, 
who  may  so  truly  be  called  spiritual  parents.  A  year 
after  he  had  entered  upon  his  labors  as  Minister  at  Large, 
it  was  found  that  the  salary  raised  for  the  support  of  his 
office  was  so  very  inadequate  that  he  must  either  abandon 
the  enterprise  or  procure  some  independent  resources. 


212  LIFK    OF    JAMF.S    II.    PKKKIXS. 

He  did  not  hesit;ite,  hut  at  once  proposed  to  open  a 
school  for  young  ladies.  How  high  \vas  his  reverence 
for  woman  and  her  function  has  already  appeared  ;  and 
now  it  was  a  mailer  of  self-congratulation  that  lie;  could 
actively  participate  in  raising  the  standard  of  female  edu- 
cation. With  the  respect  felt  for  him,  there  was  of 
course  no  difficulty  in  surrounding  himself  with  a  "hoiee 
circle  of  scholars,  to  whose  culture  he  at  once  sedulously 
devoted  his  leisure  hours.  In  their  society  he  found  re- 
freshment amidst  his  exhausting  puhlie  engagements. 
"  My  week  is  spent,"  he  writes  to  a  friend,  "  in  visit- 
ing poor,  sick,  hliud,  maimed,  wicked,  wretched  chil- 
dren of  mortality,  relieving  the  melancholy  monotony 
of  such  duties  hv  a  daily  three  hours'  converse  with  eiidit 
or  ten  hopeful  young  maidens.  If  I  were  to  ohey  ihe 
wishes  of  my  '  depraved  nature,'  1  might  join  you  at 
trout-fishing,  hut  I  have  a  '  mission  '  amidst  the  dust, 
sweat,  sickness,  and  nonsense  of  Cincinnati  ;  and  were  I 
to  desert,  the  memory  of  my  unfaithfulness  would  spoil  the 
flavor  of  the  richest  trout.  So  much  for  a  fixed  idea.1' 

Of  Mr.  Perkins's  skill  and  success  as  an  educator,  the 
hcst  proof  may  he  found  in  the  following  letters  from  two 
of  his  pupils. 

"  With  joyful  alacrity  I  add  my  mite  to  the  materials  from 
whirl)  you  meditate  giving  to  the  world  the  memoirs  of  my 
revered  teacher.  It  is  about  Mr.  Perkins  —  the  impersona- 
tion*of  my  ideal  of  all  that  is  glorious  in  man  —  that  I  am  to 
speak.  ()  that  I  could  speak  as  I  feel,  as  thoughts  of  his 
many  virtues,  great  natural  and  acquired  intellectual  powers, 
and  beautiful  peculiarities,  come  rushing  upon  me!  If  I 
could  take  you  with  me  into  that  pleasant  lillle  room,  sacred 
as  our  school-room,  and  show  you  that  table  with  the  youth- 
ful band  gathered  around  it,  and  their  minds'  father  at  its 


MANHOOD.  213 

head,  and  if  you  could  see  with  what  breathless  attention  and 
delight  they  listen  to  his  words,  you  would  know  that  their 
hearts  were  his.  Then,  could  you  hear  his  questions,  so 
varied  in  tone  and  manner,  and  hear  in  turn  the  fearless 
answers,  you  would  know  that  he  understood  each  one's 
character,  and  was  ready  to  do  justice  to  each  one's  opinion. 
We  loved  him  as  a  parent  and  friend,  while  we  revered  him 
as  a  superior  being.  The  sympathy  he  always  expressed  in 
our  feelings  and  doings  elicited  from  us  the  most  perfect 
confidence.  If  we  were  happy  we  must  tell  him,  that  his 
smile  might  perfect  our  happiness  ;  if  sad,  he  condoled  with 
us  ;  if  in  perplexity,  he  advised.  He  seemed  to  understand 
and  come  down  to  all  our  little  trials,  and  not  feel  it  a  come- 
down either. 

"  He  would  draw  a  lesson  'from  every  thing.  Often  our 
books  were  unopened  during  the  three  or  four  hours  we  re- 
mained with  him,  and  yet  we  went  away  with  some  great 
lesson  imprinted  upon'  our  memory,  never  to  be  effaced, 
called  forth  by  an  apparently  slight  remark  from  one  of  us. 
It  was  principally  by  conversation  that  he  taught  us,  and  I 
never  knew  any  one  who  could  lead  a  conversation  so  well, 
and  draw  out  others'  ideas  so  entirely.  He  had  a  vast 
amount  of  general  knowledge,  well  digested,  stored  away, 
labelled,  and  lying  quietly  in  its  place  until  wanted  ;  then  it 
was  all  ready  for  use.  We  thought  he  knew  every  thing. 
He  ever  mingled  the  moral  with  the  intellectual,  and  gave 
the  former  the  precedence,  though  he  thought  it  every  one's 
duty  to  cultivate  to  the  utmost  each  mental  faculty  ;  for  he 
used  to  say,  *All  knowledge  will  be  of  use  in  another  world, 
where  we  can  go  on  advancing  gloriously  when  freed  from 
the  pressure  of  mortality.'  He  thought  that  people  do  wrong 
in  paying  particular  attention  to  capacities  which  are  natu- 
rally precocious,  and  desired  rather  that  dormant  ones 
should  first  be  awakened.  He  had  an  utter  aversion  to  any 
thing  like  parrotism  ;  originality  of  mind  was  his  delight. 


214  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

Consequently,  his  favorite  authors  were  those  whom  he  con- 
sidered bold,  free  thinkers.  He  always  wished  us  to  give 
our  reasons  for  holding  any  opinion,  and  thus  endeavoured  to 
prevent  our  adopting  views  without  reflection.  He  thought 
politics  an  essential  part  of  a  female's  education  ;  and  to 
rouse  us  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  such  subjects,  he  read 
to  us  from  the  newspapers  daily,  and  discussed  with  us  the 
great  questions  of  the  day.  How  we  enjoyed  those  argu- 
ments !  He  would  propose  a  question,  and  we,  having  made 
up  our  minds  for  or  against  it,  argued  with  him  and  each 
other.  Always  we  felt  at  perfect  liberty  to  ask  him  about 
any  thing  that  we  did  not  understand,  and  he  would  explain 
so  delightfully  !  In  our  studies  he  endeavoured  to  have  some- 
thing to  exercise  each  faculty  of  the  mind  alternately.  We 
never  had  arithmetic,  algebra,  geometry,  and  then  history, 
geography,  biography  ;  but  arithmetic,  history,  rhetoric, 
then  algebra,  mechanics,  logic,  &*c. 

"  We  read  aloud  to  each  other  a  great  deal  when  he  was 
not  with  us,  —  poetry  and  prose  alternately.  lie  selected 
for  us.  Afterwards  we  wrote  out  our  impressions  of  the 
authors'  merits,  and  quoted  passages  that  pleased  us.  We 
read  most  of  Scott's  novels  during  school  hours.  This  many 
persons  considered  a  waste  of  time,  but  he  thought  they  con- 
tained a  combination  of  instruction  which  could  scarce  be 
found  elsewhere.  He  desired  that  the  imagination  should  be 
particularly  cultivated,  as  refining  the  whole  mind,  and  add- 
ing beauty  to  virtue.  He  liked  to  have  us  write  stories  once  in 
a  while.  We  habitually  wrote  compositions.  When  he  gave 
us  subjects  they  were  of  this  nature:  — '  What  <Tre  the  causes 
that  determine  the  character  of  a  people  ?  '  '  What  are  the 
relative  influences  of  the  sciences  and  fine  arts  on  individual 
character  ?  '  &c.  He  thought  a  great  deal  of  analysis,  as 
strengthening  the  judgment  and  memory.  A  book  was 
never  considered  as  done  with,  until  it  had  been  subjected  to 
this  process.  Before  hearing  us  recite,  he  read  over  our 


MANHOOD.  215 

lessons,  and  therefore  his  questions  had  a  bearing  upon  the 
whole  matter,  and  not  merely  upon  a  line  or  paragraph,  as 
is  the  case  with  too  many  teacher's  questions.  He  had  a 
great  deal  of  real  humor,  which  he  frequently  used  for  our 
diversion.  He  advised  us  never  to  talk  unless  we  really  had 
something  to  say  ;  trifling  chat  and  scandal  were  an  abomi- 
nation to  him.  He  endeavoured  to  impress  upon  us  the  im- 
portance of  our  moments,  and  said  we  should  always  have  a 
book  close  beside  us,  that  when  waiting  for  any  one  or  for 
any  cause  we  might  not  be  losers.  By  the  way,  did  you 
ever  see  him  read  ?  He  read  the  most  in  the  least  time  of 
any  person  I  ever  knew.  By  merely  glancing  over  a  page  he 
could  catch  what  there  was  of  good  in  it;  that  he  remem- 
bered, the  rest  was  nothing  to  him.  He  would  tell  us  always 
to  have  our  eyes  and  ears  open,  —  that  there  was  some- 
thing to  be  learned  at  all  moments  and  everywhere.  1 
believe  he  never  even  took  a  walk  without  learning  some- 
thing. His  great  aim  .was  improvement,  and  he  tried  to 
make  ours  the  same.  He  said  he  hoped  to  teach  us  how  to 
learn,  then  he  should  be  contented. 

"  We  tried  hard  to  please  him,  —  and  he  was  not  hard  to 
please,  —  for  we  all  loved  him  deeply,  devotedly.  He  was 
ever  the  topic  of  our  conversation.  The  sayings  and  doings 
of,, '  our  Mr.  Perkins  '  could  be  compared  with  those  of  no 
other  person,  —  he  was  the  man.  A  storm  was  never  severe 
enough  to  keep  us  from  school,  for  our  hours  spent  there 
were  the  sweetest  in  the  day.  Then  at  church  how  proud 
we  were  of  him  !  how  delightedly  we  listened  to  him  as  our 
pastor  !  What  weight  his  pi'ecepts  ever  had,  for  they  were 
accompanied  by  that  impressive  good-promoter,  example  ! 
O,  he  was  a  dear,  dear,  good  man !  I  shall  ever  thank 
God  that  I  have  known  him  as  I  did  know  him.  His  loss 
is  irreparable.  But  he  is  happy,  and  in  that  belief  we  will 
not  repine  that  for  a  time  we  are  materially  separated.  And 
now  I  will  close,  though  I  feel  that  I  could  never  weary  in 
talking  of  my  beloved  teacher." 


216  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  any  one  to  be  with 
Mr.  Perkins  daily  for  so  long  a  time,  without  feeling  fur  him 
the  deepest  love  and  reverence,  and  in  some  degree,  at 
least,  understanding  his  spirit.  But  it  has  been  a  matter  of 
surprise,  even  to  myself,  to  feel  how  constantly  his  opinion 
occurs  to  me  upon  every  subject  which  I  hear  mentioned, 
and  yet  I  hardly  know  what  I  shall  say  in  answer  to  your 
inquiries.  His  mind  was  so  perfect  as  a  whole  that  it  seems 
impossible  to  regard  separately  its  component  attributes; 
but,  as  I  have  been  his  pupil,  I  may  have  seen  him,  as  a 
teacher,  under  peculiar  aspects,  and  I  can  at  least  try  to 
recall  some  of  his  characteristics. 

"  Strange  though  it  may  seem  in  so  great  a  mind,  Mr. 
Perkins  was  very  fond  of  teaching.  I  have  often  heard  him 
say  that  he  much  preferred  this  occupation  to  any  which  he 
had  ever  tried.  He  relied  in  his  teaching  very  little  on 
books;  and  his  wonderful  knowledge  enabled  him  to  instruct 
us  upon  every  subject  in  a  much  more  satisfactory  manner 
than  any  books  which  we  might  have  obtained  could  have 
done.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  made  no  use  of  books,  but  they 
were  used  rather  as  suggestive  texts  to  be  commented  upon 
than  as  authorities  to  be  trusted.  His  choice  of  books  often 
surprised  those  who  were  unacquainted  with  him  ;  but  they 
were  generally  selected  with  the  view  to  provoke  inquiry 
and  discussion.  Hardly  a  day  passed  without  some  question 
arising  calculated  to  call  forth  debate,  frequently  detaining 
us  long  after  the  school  hours.  Nor  was  any  subject  ex- 
cluded; he  attracted  our  attention  to  politics  and  religion, 
and  listened  with  interest  to  our  criticisms  of  the  books  we 
were  reading,  and  of  our  favorite  characters  in  history.  In 
fact,  I  do  not  think  that  any  questions  long  troubled  the  minds 
of  his  pupils,  for  they  were  all  brought  before  him,  and  there 
the  truth  was  soon  discovered.  Mr.  Perkins  never  pretended 
to  decide  for  us  on  any  subject ;  in  fact,  he  generally  took 
the  opposite  side  to  us,  without  reference  to  his  own  opinion. 


MANHOOD.  217 

But  before  we  parted,  he  would  present  the  truth  in  so  clear 
and  persuasive  a  manner,  that  few  were  able  to  resist  it. 

"  One  of  the  most  wonderful  characteristics  of  Mr.  Per- 
kins's mind  seemed  to  me  to  be  his  power  of  seeing  at  once 
the  TRUTH  ;  no  matter  how  great  the  number  of  mysteries 
by  which  it  was  shrouded,  his  clear  eye,  without  fail, 
without  hesitation,  pierced  them  all  until  it  reached  the  very 
centre.  Sometimes  he  would  show  us  the  variety  of  views 
which  might  be  entertained  upon  the  same  subject.  He 
would  ask  our  opinion  upon  any  point,  and  when  we  had  giv- 
en it,  would  bring  forward  the  arguments  opposed  to  it  ;  and 
we  would  be  obliged  to  confess,  that  a  person  looking  upon 
the  subject  in  that  point  of  view  would  arrive  at  a  conclu- 
sion opposite  to  our  own.  He  would  then  give  us  another 
series  of  arguments,  which,  if  we  yielded  to  them,  would 
force  us  again  to  change  our  opinion,  and  so  on,  until  he 
pointed  out  to  us  the  true  reasons  which  should  guide  our 
judgment.  So  much  trust  had  we  in  this  power  of  his,  that, 
when  he  stated  any  thing,  we  were  almost  sure  it  must  be 
so  ;  and  our  friends  laughingly  asserted,  that  all  our  argu- 
ments concluded  with  '  Mr.  Perkins  says  so.'  This  reliance 
was  to  us  a  safe  refuge  from  the  storms  and  contrarieties  of 
opinion  by  which  we  were  surrounded. 

"  Mr.  Perkins  constantly  impressed  upon  our  minds  the 
inconsistency  of  consistency,  as  that  word  is  generally 
used,  —  showing  us  that  true  consistency  can  exist  only 
where  there  is  progressive  change,  and  that  without  such 
change  there  could  be  no  improvement.  And  he  constantly 
exemplified  this  truth  in  himself.  Those  who  did  not  under- 
stand him  often  complained  of,  and  even  ridiculed,  his 
changes  ;  but  those  who  knew  him  best  saw  that  no  day 
passed  without  his  taking  a  step  —  often  the  step  of  a 
giant  —  in  the  ascending  path  to  wisdom  and  goodness. 
This  progress  was  evident  in  his  bearing  at  school.  During 
the  last  few  years  that  I  was  with  him,  —  even  when  he  was 

VOL.  i.  19 


218  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

suffering  from  physical  infirmity,  —  I  never  knew  him,  un- 
der all  the  trials  to  which  a  teacher  is  subject,  yield  to  irrita- 
tion of  temper,  or  impatience  of  spirit ;  he  seemed  to  have 
acquired  that  for  which  he  had  ever  been  striving,  —  perfect 
mastery  over  himself.  lie  also  impressed  upon  our  minds 
the  greatest  horror  of  sectarianism,  or,  indeed,  narrowness 
of  any  sort.  It  was  a  favorite  idea  with  him,  that  there  are 
classes  of  minds  adapted  to  receive  the  special  truths  \vhich 
are  found  in  every  form  of  faith  ;  and  thus  he  rejoiced  alike 
in  the  spread  of  Swedenborgianism,  of  Catholicism,  and  of 
the  Unitarian  belief.  His  horror  of  sectarianism  was  very 
strong,  and  I  do  not  think  there  was  any  failing  with  which 
he  had  so  little  sympathy,  and  for  which  he  had  so  little  pity, 
as  bigotry  ;  for  his  mind  was  so  comprehensive,  that  he 
could  understand  any  thing  better  than  the  smallness  of 
others1  prejudices. 

"  Mr.  Perkins  did  not  think  it  right  that  some  one  faculty, 
in  which  the  person  showed  great  proficiency,  should  be  cul- 
tivated to  the  exclusion  of  others.  '  This,'  he  would  say, 
*  may  be  preparing  a  person  for  a  successful  career  upon 
earth,  but  is  it  the  true  preparation  to  enter  another  world  ? 
Every  faculty  should  be  cultivated,  the  whole  being  en- 
larged.' I  think  Mr.  Perkins  laid  much  more  stress  upon 
breadth  of  development,  both  in  the  intellect  and  character, 
than  upon  the  peculiar  excellence  of  any  one  power.  At 
the  same  time,  he  was  very  much  opposed  to  compelling 
children  to  pursue  any  particular  branch  of  study  to  which 
they  showed  a  disinclination.  All  persons,  he  thought,  had 
special  vocations,  to  which  they  were  suited,  and  which  they 
should  learn  to  fill  well.  He  had  a  great  power  of  adapting 
his  teaching  to  the  minds  under  his  control,  and  of  bringing 
the  most  complicated  truths  within  the  comprehension  of  the 
dullest.  I  have  often  known  others,  in  attempting  to  explain 
something,  fail  because  they  could  not  perceive  what  it  was 
that  troubled  their  listener.  But  this  he  always  seemed  to 


MANHOOD.  219 

understand.  '  Any  one  who  has  just  mastered  a  subject,' 
he  would  say,  'is  better  able  to  explain  it  than  one  more 
fully  acquainted  with  it,  for  the  former  will  remember  the 
little  difficulties  which  arose  in  his  own  mind,  and  will  know 
how  to  smooth  them  away  for  others.' 

"  There  was  no  fault  which  Mr.  Perkins  spoke  against 
more  frequently  than  that  of  scandal,  no  power  which  he 
deemed  more  abused  than  that  of  the  tongue.  To  punctual- 
ity, also,  he  gave  more  importance  than  is  usual.  I  have 
often  heard  him  say,  that  he  considered  it  as  much  a  crime 
to  steal  a  person's  time,  as  any  thing  else  which  belonged 
to  him.  He  would  sometimes  give  us  different  passages 
from  standard  authors  to  read,  and  we  would  then  compare 
them.  I  remember  hearing  him  say,  when  we  expressed 
surprise  at  the  differences  of  opinion  concerning  some  new 
publication,  '  that  books  pleased  us  in  proportion  as  they 
called  forth  ideas  already  existing  in  our  minds  in  a  latent 
form,  and  that  while  the  most  popular  books  would  be  those 
which  addressed  themselves  in  this  way  to  the  largest  num- 
ber, the  greatest  books  were  those  which  addressed  them- 
selves to  the  highest  class  of  minds.'  He  always  wished  us 
to  take  a  lively  interest  in  the  great  movements  which  were 
agitating  the  world,  and  insisted  upon  our  reading  the  pa- 
pers ;  he  said  it  was  foolish  that  so  many  should  spend  their 
whole  time  in  studying  the  history  of  the  past,  while  they 
remained  totally  ignorant  of  events  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance happening  all  around  them.  I  think  Mr.  Perkins  made 
it  his  constant  aim  to  educate  those  placed  under  his  charge 
naturally.  Their  style  of  reading,  writing,  and  thinking, 
he  corrected  when  there  were  any  decided  faults  ;  but  he 
allowed  them,  as  a  rule,  to  form  themselves.  He  thought 
it  much  better  for  the  mind  to  be  engaged  in  but  few  studies 
at  a  time.  '  You  do  not  come  to  school  to  learn,'  he  would 
say,  '  but  to  acquire  the  power  of  learning.  The  knowledge 
which  you  acquire  at  school  will  avail  you  little,  if  your 


220  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PF.RKINS. 

mind  is  not  so  trained  that  you  will  have  the  desire  and  the 
power  to  study  when  you  have  left  it.'  The  influence  of 
climate,  government,  &c.,  upon  the  character  and  mind, — 
the  spirit  itself,  —  the  heart  and  intellect,  —  all  became  in 
his  hands  subjects  for  the  most  interesting  and  instructive 
conversation. 

"  I  could  go  on  thus  indefinitely,  recalling  what  I  remem- 
ber, but  I  feel  constantly  that  I  am  doing  him  injustice,  and 
say  to  myself,  '  Is  this  all  that  you  can  record,  after  having 
listened  for  so  many  years  to  Mr.  Perkins's  eloquence  and 
wisdom  ?  '  But  although  I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  Mr. 
Perkins  intellectually,  in  common  with  all  of  his  scholars 
I  can  bring  a  living  testimony  to  his  greatness  in  our  love 
for  him,  and  this  will  show  his  influence.  Mr.  Perkins  was 
idolized  by  his  scholars,  as  only  a  father  could  be  ;  and  they 
cherish  his  memory  in  their  hearts  with  the  tcndcrest  affec- 
tion. Few  can  know  better  than  we  do  his  kindness  and 
tenderness  ;  —  that  kindness,  which  caused  him  to  take  little 
children  by  the  hand,  and  day  after  day  walk  with  them  in 
the  woods,  fascinating  them  with  tales  more  wildly  beautiful 
than  those  which  have  been  eagerly  sought  by  the  young  of 
many  generations,  snatches  of  which  constantly  recur  to 
my  memory  like  half-forgotten  strains  of  music  ;  —  that  ten- 
derness, which  made  him  as  careful  not  to  wound  the  feel- 
ings of  his  scholars,  even  by  a  just  rebuke,  as  if  they  had 
been  his  own  children.  We  know,  too,  how  spiritual  he  was. 
I  have  seen  him  in  his  school-room  and  in  the  pulpit,  when 
he  seemed  to  be  in  direct  communion  with  God,  and  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  that  all  those  glorious  sermons  are  lost,  —  ex- 
cepting in  so  far  as  they  live  in  the  hearts  of  his  hearers. 

"  One  word  more  I  wish  to  add.  Since  Mr.  Perkins's 
death  I  have  heard  the  remark,  that  during  the  last  few 
years  of  his  life  he  had  been  becoming  morbid  and  mel- 
ancholy. It  seems  to  me  that  the  contrary  is  the  truth. 
Just  before  giving  up  his  school,  —  a  little  over  a  year  be- 


MANHOOD.  221 

fore  his  death,  —  I  remember  hearing  him  say,  as  we  \vere 
speaking  of  the  comparative  happiness  of  young  and  old, 
that,  '  as  far  as  his  experience  went,  he  had  become,  and  was 
becoming,  happier  every  year  of  his  life.'  About  this  time 
I  left  Cincinnati,  and  did  not  see  him  again  until  a  few 
months  before  his  death,  when  I  thought  his  appearance  had 
very  much  improved.  He  was  in  better  health,  and  the 
brilliancy  and  life  of  his  manner  seemed  to  have  increased. 
I  walked  with  him  the  day  before  his  death,  and  shall  never 
be  grateful  enough  that  I  did  so.  His  face  seemed  radi- 
ant ;  —  I  had  never  seen  him  look  so  beautifully,  or  talk  more 
cheerfully.  When  he  reached  our  gate,  he  turned  and 
bowed,  with  his  bright,  peculiar  smile.  It  was  the  last  time 
that  I  ever  saw  him." 

A  lecture  delivered  by  Mr.  Perkins  in  October,  1842, 
at  the  opening  of  the  special  session  of  the  Western 
College  of  Teachers,  briefly  expresses  the  matured  results 
of  his  experience  as  an  educator.  The  want  of  suitable 
school-books,  which  he  complains  of,  he  intended,  so  far 
as  in  his  power,  to  remedy.  And  it  is  much  to  be  re- 
gretted that  he  did  not  live  to  fulfil  this  design  ;  for,  by 
the  blending  of  keen  powers  of  discrimination  with  vivid 
imagination  and  a  sound  judgment,  be  was  rarely  fitted 
for  this  important  work.  The  lecture,  though  poorly 
reported,  is  of  worth  for  its  many  practical  suggestions, 
and  strongly  indicates  its  writer's  reverence  for  woman. 

"The  subject  of  my  address  this  evening  is  the  EDUCA- 
TION OF  GIRLS,  —  a  subject  respecting  which  I  feel  some 
embarrassment,  from  its  having  been  frequently  presented 
to  the  public. 

"  Some  years  since,  a  ship  in  which  was  a  friend  of  mine, 
in  going  from  France  to  the  East  Indies,  got  entirely  out  of 
19* 


222  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

provisions,  and  the  passengers  must  have  starved  to  death 
had  it  not  been  for  a  part  of  the  cargo  consisting  of  beans. 
The  captain,  who  was  a  polite  man  in  doing  the  honors  of 
the  table  when  they  had  great  profusion,  was  equally  so 
when  they  had  nothing  but  beans:  he  would  ask,  'Gen- 
tlemen, will  you  change  your  plates,  and  take  a  few  more 
beans  ?  '  I  feel  that  this  change  of  the  College  session  is 
only  a  change  of  plates,  and  I  only  ask  you  to  take  '  some 
more  beans.' 

"  It  is  the  education  of  girls  of  which  I  propose  to  speak  ; 
but  it  is  not  the  whole  immense  subject  of  the  education  of 
girls.  Let  me,  in  the  first  place,  state  distinctly  what  I  in- 
tend to  speak  about.  It  is  of  the  intellectual  education  of 
girls  between  eight  and  eighteen  years  old.  I  cannot  speak 
here  of  the  mysteries  of  the  kitchen,  &c.  ;  I  have  no  remarks 
to  make  about  mince-pics  and  making  dresses  ;  yet  all  these 
things  go  into  their  education.  I  shall  say  little  of  thc'ir  moral 
education, —  for  the  true  sphere  of  that  is  their  homes  ;  and 
though  I  would  do  all  in  my  power  as  a  teacher  to  educate 
them  morally  while  at  my  school,  for  it  is  far  more  impor- 
tant than  their  intellectual  education,  it  is  the  parent  who 
must  do  it  in  the  main,  and  not  I. 

"  Again,  I  propose  a  practical,  not  a  popular  lecture  ;  and 
also,  at  the  outset,  I  would  say,  let  no  one  suppose  me  so 
foolish  as  to  undertake  to  give  lessons  to  the  much  older 
teachers  whom  I  see  about  me.  There  are  men  here  who 
have  studied  more  years  than  I  have  months  upon  this  sub- 
ject. I  would  ask  them  rather  to  look  at  my  remarks  as  if 
they  were  so  many  questions.  I  simply  ask,  '  Is  it  so :  '  and 
if  not,  I  wish  to  be  corrected.  My  object  is  not  so  much  to 
enlighten  you  as  to  learn  from  you. 

"  If  an  architect  were  asked  to  build  a  house,  his  first 
question  would  be,  '  What  is  to  be  its  object  ?  Tell  me  that, 
and  I  shall  know  how  to  plan  the  house.'  Every  other 
artisan  would  make  the  same  observation,  and  give  a  like 


MANHOOD.  223 

answer.  With  regard  to  education,  the  same  is  true  :  the 
first  thing  to  be  determined  is  the  object ;  you  must  know 
what  you  are  to  aim  at,  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  you  can 
take  your  aim. 

"  Now,  intellectual  education  has  several  objects.  It  has 
these  four  distinct  purposes  :  — 

"  I.  To  give  the  mind  the  instruments  by  which  it  may 
learn  more. 

"  II.  To  cultivate  the  faculties  of  the  mind  itself. 

"  III.  To  give  the  individual  a  general  knowledge  upon 
all  subjects. 

"  IV.  To  give  the  individual  a  technical  knowledge  appli- 
cable to  the  profession  to  which  he  is  destined. 

"  These  are  the  great  ends  of  intellectual  education,  as 
far  as  I  can  determine  ;  and  let  me  say  a  little  with  regard 
to  each  of  them. 

"  I.  The  education  which  gives  the  instruments  of  knowl- 
edge is  that  which  teaches  the  arts  of  reading,  writing,  and 
arithmetic,  and  any  other  art  which  gives  a  knowledge  of 
the  use  of  such  instruments  as  may  come  into  our  hands,  by 
which  our  observations  may  be  extended. 

"  Language  and  mathematics  are  the  two  great  studies 
which  furnish  the  instruments  by  which  we  may  go  out  and 
compass  the  world.  Without  language  we  could  learn 
nothing  ;  but  through  it,  as  through  an  electric  chain,  comes 
centring  home  to  us  the  thought  which  is  diffused  through- 
out the  universe.  Every  one  of  us  has  felt  the  touch  of  the 
old  philosophers  of  Greece,  and  of  the  prophets  of  Israel, 
in  his  heart  and  mind.  It  came  to  us  through  the  medium 
of  language  alone. 

"  Mathematics  is  the  next  great  master  key  to  universal 
knowledge.  This  world  itself  is  made  mathematically. 
Every  thing  that  God  has  made  is  based  upon  mathematics. 
You  cannot  learn  a  single  law  of  natural  philosophy  or  chem- 
istry, except  by  the  aid  of  mathematics.  You  must,  then, 
use  it  as  an  instrument  of  acquiring  knowledge. 


224  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  II.  In  the  second  place,  as  to  the  education  of  the  facul- 
ties of  the  human  mind.  These  faculties  I  shall  divide  into 
four  classes  :  — 

"  1.  The  power  of  ohservation. 

"  2.   The  power  of  analysis. 

"  3.  The  power  of  composition. 

"  4.  The  power  of  imagination. 

"  These  four  comprehend  all  that  is  included  in  the  intel- 
lect. Now,  each  of  these  requires  a  thorough  systematic 
training. 

"  1.  '  The  power  of  observation,'  you  may  reply,  '  any 
body,  who  is  not  at  Columbus  in  the  blind  asylum,  has 
without  training.'  Every  one  of  you  who  has  ever  read  the 
little  story  in  the  Evening's  Entertainment,  of '  Eyes  and  No 
Eyes,'  knows  that  it  is  not  so.  How  many  thousands,  with 
as  good  eyes  as  Dr.  Jenner,  observed  all  that  fell  under  his 
observation  !  But  their  powers  of  observation  had  not  been 
quickened  by  training.  Their  observation  had  not  been  di- 
rected as  his  had  been,  and  the  result  was,  that  he  gave  to 
the  world  a  complete  remedy  against  the  small-pox. 

"  Another  example  of  this  was  in  these  Argand  lamps 
which  we  are  now  using.  When  Argand  was  trying  his  ex- 
periments with  a  double  column  of  air  inside  and  outside  of 
the  flame,  he  found  that  the  lamp  did  not  burn  well.  His 
brother  observed  a  broken  oil-flask  in  the  room  ;  it  struck 
him  this  was  just  the  thing ;  he  seized  it,  placed  it  over  the 
flame,  and  the  lamp  was  completed. 

"  This  faculty  of  observation,  in  fact,  needs  to  be  brought 
out  by  education,  or  we  may  go  about  the  world  stone  blind. 

"  Any  one  who  has  been  an  educator  of  children  must  be 
aware  of  the  fact,  that  they  know  nothing  about  the  things 
they  see  daily,  till  their  attention  is  called  to  them  by  their 
teachers,  simply  from  the  fact  that  they  are  so  constantly  be- 
fore them. 

"  2.  In  the  next  place,  those  faculties  of  intellect  which 


MANHOOD.  225 

give  us  the  power  of  analyzing  (however  you  may  classify 
them)  need  training;  and  one  of  the  greatest  objects  of  in- 
tellectual education  should  be,  to  know  how  we  are  to  culti- 
vate these  faculties.  It  is  by  these  that  we  go  out  into  the 
fields  of  history,  of  natural  science,  and  of  human  experi- 
ence, and  read  there,  and  understand  what  is  there  written. 
It  is  on  account  of  the  difference  in  degree  of  this  power  of 
analysis  in  different  persons,  that  one  will  read  a  volume, 
and  remember  half  a  dozen  dates  and  nothing  else,  while 
another,  analyzing  and  discriminating,  will  seize  and  become 
entire  master  of  the  whole  spirit  and  essence  of  the  author 
at  once.  This  is  one  of  the  great  and  predominating  powers 
of  Daniel  Webster.  It  is  this  which  enables  him,  or  any 
one  like  him,  to  see  the  main  point  of  an  argument.  While 
others  waste  their  time  upon  the  by-ways,  he  goes  to  the 
great  central  idea  at  once,  and  thus  is  enabled  to  convince 
all.  I  mention  the  name  of  W7ebster,  because,  a  few  years 
since,  an  instance  fell  under  my  own  observation,  in  which  a 
very  intricate  law  question  was  presented  to  an  eminent  law- 
yer now  on  the  bench.  He  spent  forty-eight  hours  upon  the 
case  ;  he  examined  his  books,  went  through  immense  labor, 
and  proposed  a  written  opinion  upon  it.  He  said  it  was  the 
most  difficult  thing  he  had  undertaken,  to  separate  the  ten 
thousand  little  points,  and  to  get  at  the  main  question,  and 
learn  the  truth  with  regard  to  it.  It  was  an  insurance  case. 
Mr.  Webster,  who  was  also  of  counsel  for  the  insurance 
company,  was  called  on,  and  came  to  the  office,  and  the 
question  and  statement  of  facts  were  presented  to  him  for  the 
first  time.  He  took  the  papers,  and  for  twenty  minutes 
seemed  to  be  not  alive,  except  that  he  breathed,  so  intently 
was  he  absorbed  in  thought.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  as  if 
he  had  waked  up  from  a  dream,  he  passed  his  hand  over  his 
eyes,  looked  round  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  and  stated 
the  very  point,  and  in  the  same  position  and  relation  as  the 
other  lawyer,  who  had  devoted  forty-eight  hours  to  the  study. 


226  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  It  is  this  power  which  we  should  strive  to  give  to  men, 
and  then,  in  politics,  and  in  religion,  and  in  the  business  of 
life,  they  would  act  sensibly,  and  not  wildly  and  foolishly. 

"  It  needs  not  to  be  said,  that  the  power  of  observation  be- 
longs to  woman  as  well  as  to  man,  and  should  equally  be 
educated.  They  possess,  unquestionably,  very  good  powers 
of  observation  for  some  things,  which  are  capable  of  being 
highly  developed.  But  some  will  doubt  whether  the  culti- 
vation of  the  power  of  analysis  is  as  necessary  for  them  as 
for  us.  To  me  it  appears  equally  necessary.  I  believe  it 
is  necessary  even  for  the  sake  of  small  things. 

"  You  will  find  that  the  comfort  of  a  household  depends 
upon  the  power  of  analysis  which  the  housewife  possesses. 
She  cannot  be  a  good  housewife  without  it.  She  cannot  dis- 

O 

cern  what  makes  affairs  go  wrong  or  right.  When  her  hus- 
band comes  home,  his  brow  knit  and  his  countenance  sulky, 
if  she  has  not  this  power  she  is  not  able  to  know  what  it  is 
that  ails  him,  and,  not  knowing  the  cause,  cannot  dispel  it. 
If  she  has  this  power  she  can  do  it.  And  when  we  go  into 
her  sphere  as  a  mother,  we  know  that  without  this  power 
she  cannot  conduct  the  education  of  her  children  with  pro- 
priety and  ability.  It  is  impossible  for  any  woman  to  guide 
her  children  right,  with  regard  to  their  habits  of  thought, 
feeling,  and  action,  if  she  has  not  this  power.  It  is  called  for 
daily,  in  all  the  little  and  great  things  of  life  ;  and  in  regard 
to  these  little  things,  I  ask  you  to  say,  from  your  own  expe- 
rience, whether  these  many  household  matters  —  these  name- 
less, unknown  things  —  do  not  go  far  to  make  up  our  hap- 
piness and  influence  our  character  ?  Whether  many  a  soul 
has  not  been  spoiled  at  the  fireside  by  these  little  things, — 
the  insignificant  items  of  housekeeping  ? 

"  3.  Again,  the  power  of  composition,  —  of  recombining 
the  elements  that  we  obtain  by  analysis  into  one  whole  ;  this 
is  one  of  the  greatest  powers  that  man  possesses,  and  needs 
to  be  cultivated.  It  is  called  for  every  time  that  anv  man 


MANHOOD.  227 

speaks  or  acts,  if  he  would  produce  a  whole  impression.  A 
man  cannot  write  an  article  for  a  newspaper,  or  deliver  a 
stump  speech,  without  this  power.  The  great  difference  be- 
tween speakers  is  the  difference  in  their  power  of  composi- 
tion. It  is  equally  true  in  the  other  sex.  This  power  is  con- 
tinually brought  into  play.  It  is  the  intellectual  power  of 
composition  that  enables  one  woman  to  make  a  good  pudding, 
or  a  neat  dress,  or  any  other  article  of  cookery  or  clothing, 
while  another  cannot  do  it  at  all.  It  is  by  the  exercise  of 
this  power  that  she  is  enabled  to  carry  on  those  combinations 
that  make  up  housekeeping.  It  is  by  this  that  she  is  ena- 
bled to  make  her  house  a  pleasant  home.  Is  there  any  one 
who  does  not  know  the  difference  between  a  room  where  the 
furniture,  &c.,  is  well  arranged,  judiciously  and  tastefully, 
and  one  ill  arranged,  with  no  reference  to  comfort,  con- 
venience, or  taste,  and  where  the  composition  of  the  whole 
scenery  is  cheerless  ?  Does  not  every  one  feel  a  chill  upon 
entering  such  a  room  ?  .  It  is  the  want  of  this  power  of  com- 
position, in  part  at  least,  which  prevents  a  woman  from 
making  her  husband  a  home-staying  man,  instead  of  one 
who  spends  all  his  evenings  at  the  political  gathering,  or  even 
at  the  grog-shop.  And  again,  with  regard  to  the  education  of 
her  children,  this  power  is  constantly  called  for.  It  is  by  her 
faculty  of  recomposing  that  she  is  enabled  to  bring  those  in- 
fluences to  bear  which  make  them  just,  pure,  intellectual,  — 
all  that  she  wishes  them  to  be. 

"  4.  The  power  of  imagination.  For  the  practical  pur- 
poses of  housekeeping,  this  is  less  necessary  than  the  facul- 
ties of  observing,  analyzing,  and  bringing  together  again  the 
elements  of  existence  to  any  whole.  Yet  this  power  has  an 
intimate  connection  with  all  the  occurrences  of  life.  It  is  by 
this  that  sympathy  is  in  a  great  measure  produced.  The 
person  whose  imagination  is  vivid,  and  in  whom  it  has  been 
cultivated,  will  sympathize  when  another  will  not.  It  brings 
absent  things  near  to  us  ;  if  we  have  not  this  power,  we  do  not 


228  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

care  for  things  which  are  not  before  our  eyes.     We  hear  of 
the  misfortunes  of  persons  at  a  distance,  and  we  care  but 
little  about  them.     But  let  a  person  come  here  who  has  wit- 
nessed them,  and  who  has  the  power  to  represent  and  bring 
them    home  to  us,  we  shall  then  feel  and  judge  rightly. 
Why  ?     Because  our  sympathy  is  increased  ?     No  :  but  be- 
cause our  imagination  has  been  roused.     Now,  to  the  person 
of  vivid  imagination,  this  aid  is  needless ;  he  will  compre- 
hend and  sympathize  without  it.     I  say,  then,  that  this  moral 
bond  of  sympathy  depends  in  a  great   measure  upon   this 
power  of  imagination.     And  what  sustains  us  often  at  the 
bed-side  of  sickness,  and  in  all  our  troubles  and  trials  ?     Is 
it  not  the  power  of  going,  by  imagination,  from  that  scene  of 
trouble,  and  living  elsewhere  ?  Is  it  not  true,  that,  when  some 
pleasant  book  is  put  into  our  hands,  we  are  able   by   this 
power  to  leave  the  scenes  by  which  we  are  surrounded,  and 
pass  away  into  other  lands  and  ages  ?     Is  it  not  through  the 
power  of  imagination  that  the  mother,  sitting  and  watching 
by  her  sick  infant  or  husband,  may  take  her  Testament,  and, 
leaving  her  cold,  narrow  room,  the  straw  bed,  and  the  small 
lamp  and  the  decaying  fire,  may  be  carried  by  the  sacred 
words  of  the  Gospel  into  the  green  fields  of  Palestine,  and 
listen  to  the  tidings  of  God  as  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  Jesus 
himself?     May  she  not  join   with  that  humble  band  of  fol- 
lowers who  are  already  on  the  borders  of  the  Lake  of  Gali- 
lee, and  who,  with  their  mantles  gathered  around  them,  are 
praying  that  he  who  has  just  departed  upon  its  waters  may 
not  be  swallowed  up  by  the  storm  which  they  see  gathering? 
and,  in  imagination,  will  she  not  be  with  the  disciples  them- 
selves in   the  reeling  ship,  when  He   rose  and  stilled   the 
waves  ?  and  will  she  not  realize,  by  this  power  of  imagina- 
tion, as  without  it  she  could  not  have  realized,  the  great  truth, 
that  it  is  more  than  a  man  in  whose   presence  she  stands  ? 
It  is,  too,  by   this  same  power  that  the  most  distinct  and 
vivid  certainty  is  given  to  all  the  future.     There  may  be  a 


MANHOOD.  229 

Christian  faith  in  one  who  has  little  of  this  power.  But  the 
more  vivid  the  imagination,  the  more  vivid  the  reality  which 
we  perceive  through  faith. 

"Such  are  these  four  powers, —  Observation,  Analysis, 
Composition,  and  Imagination.  And  they  comprehend  the 
whole  range  of  the  human  intellect,  if  I  mistake  not.  And 
I  ask  if  there  is  one  of  them  that  is  not  deserving  of  cultiva- 
tion, and  that  does  not  need  it  as  much  in  the  female  as  in 
the  male.  Thus,  then,  we  have  taken  one  decided  step  in 
our  theory  of  the  intellectual  education  of  woman. 

"  III.  In  the  third  place,  we  have  to  speak  of  the  intellect- 
ual education  of  girls  which  seeks  to  give  a  general  knowl- 
edge, —  which  makes  us  acquainted  with  the  world  at  large, 
with  mankind,  and  with  God,  who  made  and  preserves  man 
and  the  world  he  dwells  in. 

"  Many  persons,  when  told  that  their  daughters  are  to  be 
introduced  to  the  study  of  natural  history,  philosophy,  hu- 
man history,  or  political  economy,  think  it  a  waste  of  time. 
They  say,  'Can  you  boil  a  ham  by  political  economy,  or 
roast  a  chicken  by  natural  philosophy  ?  '  and,  taking  this  low 
idea  of  the  .education  of  females,  they  do  not  recognize 
the  truth,  that  it  is  only  by  this  general  knowledge  woman 
can  grow  to  her  proper  height. 

"  But  it  is  too  evident  to  need  argument,  that  it  is  by  the 
means  of  this  universal  acquaintance  with  the  whole  world, 
and  nothing  short  of  the  whole  world,  that  we  become  what 
men  and  women  should  be. 

"  I  ask  you  if  it  be  not  true,  that  the  divine  will  be  just  so 
much  more  a  sectarian  as  he  is  ignorant  ?  the  lawyer  nar- 
row just  in  proportion  to  his  want  of  general  knowledge  ?  if 
the  politician  will  not  become  a  mere  partisan,  if  his  views 
have  not  been  widened  out  to  the  whole  scope  of  the  world? 
It  is  only  by  this  general  knowledge,  this  universal  acquaint- 
ance with  every  thing,  that,  putting  off  this  narrowness  of  a 

VOL.  i.  20 


230  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

sectarian,  he  is  enabled  to  stand  before  God  and  the  world 
as  a  man,  and  not  as  a  partisan. 

"  But  women,  it  may  be  said,  are  not  exposed  to  the  dan- 
ger that  men  are,  —  that  of  pursuing  one  profession  exclu- 
sively, and  being  narrowed  down,  and  becoming  mere 
tools,  mere  mechanics,  or  lawyers,  or  divines. 

"  It  is  true,  that  woman  is  not  exposed  to  this  professional 
danger.  But  is  she  not  to  danger  just  as  great, —  to  an 
education  which  would  make  her  a  mere  boiler  of  hams  and 
sweeper  of  rooms,  as  if  the  profession  of  housekeeping  were 
the  only  thing  she  could  be  expected  to  understand  ?  Is 
there  not  danger  of  this  ? 

"  But  we  wish  her  to  be  educated,  so  as  not  only  to  know 
how  to  sweep  her  room  or  boil  a  ham,  and  do  every  thing 
with  her  own  hands  (and  this  I  hold  that  all  women  should 
learn  to  do),  but  we  also  wish  her  to  be  educated  with  as 
much  care  as  we  ourselves  should  be. 

"  Many  men,  I  believe,  for  fear  that  woman  would  outstrip 
them,  say  that  this  knowledge  is  out  of  her  province,  and 
that  she  has  no  business  with  any  thing  of  the  kind. 

"  I  believe  that  woman  has  an  immortal  soul,  and  is  just 
as  much  a  child  of  my  Maker  as  we  are,  and  that  we  have 
no  more  right  to  try  to  limit  her  than  to  limit  ourselves  to 
any  line  of  life  alone,  and  as  I  hold  it  criminal  in  a  man  to 
become  a  mere  divine,  a  mere  lawyer,  a  mere  mechanic,  or 
any  other  part  of  a  man,  so  it  would  be  criminal  in  us  to 
make  our  helpmates  any  less  perfect  than  we  would  make 
ourselves.  All  general  knowledge,  then,  I  say,  becomes 
the  right  of  woman,  and  this  should  be  given  her.  And  if 
this  be  true,  we  have  taken  another  great  step  in  settling 
our  theory  of  female  education. 

"IV.  The  fourth  branch  of  intellectual  education  is  tech- 
nical education,  and  woman  is  entitled  to  a  technical,  profes- 
sional education,  as  much  so  as  a  lawyer  or  a  carpenter. 
At  first  sight  it  would  seem  that  woman  has  no  technical 


MANHOOD.  231 

profession.  I  think  that  every  woman  has  a  profession.  It 
is  that  of  being  a  wife  and  mother.  Those  who  do  not  come 
in  as  principals,  as  wives  and  mothers,  come  into  it  as  assist- 
ants, under  the  name  of  maiden  aunts  ;  so  that  the  whole  of 
womankind,  with  few  exceptions,  belong  to  this  profession 
of  education.  For  the  wife  and  mother  must  be  an  edu- 
cator, and  the  whole  of  womankind  belong  to  the  college  of 
teachers. 

"  Now  if  this  be  true,  and  if  we  admit  nothing  else,  then 
with  respect  to  her  technical  education  as  teacher  she  has 
claims  to  be  introduced  to  a  wider  literary  and  scientific 
field  than  the  mere  lawyer,  doctor,  or  minister.  For  if 
there  is  any  profession  which  requires  extensive  knowledge, 
it  is  this  of  a  teacher.  There  is  no  greater  error  than  to 
limit  woman  in  her  technical  studies,  and  the  mistake  has 
arisen  from  this,  that  we  think  each  man  is  to  study  for  a 
profession,  and  that  she  has  no  profession  ;  but  if  that  be 
true  which  has  been  stated,  from  what  have  we  a  right  to 
shut  her  out  ? 

"  Of  these  four  branches  of  intellectual  education,  then,  so 
far  as  I  have  been  able  to  judge,  there  is  not  one  into  which 
woman  should  not  be  introduced  as  much  as  man. 

"  I  have,  then,  so  far  as  I  can,  given  you  that  which  I 
would  aim  at.  I  have  told  you,  as  I  said  that  the  architect 
would,  what  the  object  is  to  be  attained.  My  aim  would 
be,  to  give  in  the  education  of  girls  all  that  I  have  to  give. 

"  Next,  let  us  ask  as  to  the  MODE  or  PLAN  of  an  education 
for  girls  ;  and  in  the  first  place  I  will  name  the  common 
deficiencies  and  difficulties  which  exist  at  present  in  the 
intellectual  education  of  girls. 

"  1.  There  is  this  great  and  lamentable  deficiency, — 
they  are  not  well  taught  in  the  rudiments  of  any  thing  they 
undertake.  I  know  not  why  it  is,  but  it  seems  to  me  they 
are  commonly  very  imperfectly  instructed  in  the  rudiments 


232  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

of  any  science.  In  mathematics  it  is  seldom  the  case  that 
they  understand  the  theory  and  philosophy  of  mensuration 
and  rotation  at  all.  What  they  know,  they  know  mechani- 
cally. In  grammar  you  find  the  same  thing  true.  Woman 
may  talk  as  good  grammar  as  man.  They  talk  better  than 
most  men  in  this  part  of  the  world.  Not  because  they 
understand  the  theory,  however.  They  have  learned  but 
little  in  regard  to  that.  Again,  with  regard  to  reading, 
a  girl  may  go  to  school  until  she  is  fifteen  or  sixteen,  and 
may  read  beautifully  aloud.  But  try  her  as  to  the  mean- 
ing and  force  of  what  she  reads.  As  to  that  she  knows 
comparatively  little.  It  may  be  that  the  sense  may  be 
ichipped  into  boys,  and  not  into  girls,  but  I  do  not  believe 
that  to  be  the  reason.  I  believe  there  is  too  general  a  neg- 
lect on  this  subject,  —  that  it  is  for  want  of  thought  and 
consideration  on  the  part  of  the  earlier  teachers  of  girls. 

"  2.  In  the  second  place,  the  studies  are  too  crowded  ;  too 
many  things  are  given  to  girls  to  learn  at  once.  I  have  had 
children  come  to  me  ten  or  eleven  years  old,  who  were 
learning  to  read,  write,  and  spell,  and  yet  they  were  in  the 
midst  of  natural  philosophy  and  Parley's  History  of  Eng- 
land, and  of  the  World  ;  and  this  history  is  drilled  into 
them,  when  any  thing  like  an  idea  of  history  is  as  unattain- 
able as  it  would  have  been  when  they  were  six  months  old. 
They  might  better  be  at  work  improving  their  handwriting. 

"3.  The  third  difficulty  is  the  repetition  which  arises 
from  the  neglect  of  the  rudiments.  I  recollect  myself,  after 
going  on  for  six  or  seven  years  through  Ovid  and  Virgil,  I 
had  to  turn  back  and  begin  again  with  Liter  Primus,  and 
go  over  and  over  the  same  thing.  But  among  girls  this  is 
particularly  true,  —  they  turn  back  and  begin  again,  and 
retrace  their  steps,  like  a  mill-horse,  going  round  and  round, 
till  they  become  disgusted  with  the  whole  study. 

"  There  was  a  sentence  in  the  letter  of  the  President  of 
this  College  which  was  read  to-night,  that  struck  me  very 


MANHOOD.  233 

forcibly  ;  he  said  that  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  how  little 
children  really  learned,  out  of  all  the  books  which  they  went 
through.  They  appear  to  learn  very  frequently,  but  look 
deeper  than  memory  and  words,  and  there  is  but  little  left 
at  the  end  of  a  year  ;  and  unless  the  rudiments  are  well 
learned,  there  is  little  or  nothing  that  will  be  learned  from 
four  to  twenty. 

"  4.  A  fourth  difficulty  in  my  estimation,  and  my  views 
may  be  in  this  respect  somewhat  peculiar,  is,  that  too  little 
time  is  given  to  education.  I  do  not  think  that  with  males  or 
females  we  have  any  true  idea  of  the  time  necessary  for 
education ;  for  myself,  I  believe  that  with  men  the  whole 
time  should  be  occupied  up  to  the  age  of  thirty.  It  is  not 
till  the  age  of  seventeen  or  eighteen  that  young  men  can 
begin  to  appreciate  the  great  questions  presented  to  the 
intellect.  To  pass  through  them  all,  and  be  able  by  practi- 
cal experience  to  comprehend  them,  and  read  books  and  life 
understandingly,  requires  every  moment  up  to  thirty. 

"  They  had  a  higher  idea  of  education  in  olden  time,  —  a 
far  higher  idea,  when  they  did  not  expect  a  man  to  be  edu- 
cated till  he  was  thirty,  than  we  have  now.  Here,  at  eigh- 
teen or  nineteen,  young  men  know  every  thing,  and  with 
girls  it  is  still  worse.  A  young  lady  is  expected  to  know  all 
about  the  world  and  every  thing  in  it  by  the  time  she  is  six- 
teen. History,  philosophy,  all  the  languages,  all  the  mathe- 
matics,—  these  must  be  perfectly  distinct  and  clear  in  her 
mind. 

"  She  leaves  school  at  sixteen  or  seventeen,  and  goes  out 
into  the  world,  and  studies  not  at  all  after  that,  or  if  she 
makes  the  effort,  studying  alone  is  very  up-hill  work,  and 
if  she  has  no  company  or  instructor,  she  gains  little  or 
nothing. 

"  Now  it  appears  to  me,  that  much  more  time  should  be 
given   to  the    early  branches,  that  the   higher   should    not 
be  introduced  till  nearer  the  close  of  the  period  usually  de- 
20* 


234  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

voted  to  education,  and  that  education  should   be  continued 
systematically  till  eighteen,  twenty,  or  even  twenty- five. 

"  5.  A  fifth  difficulty  is  a  want  of  system.  There  are 
institutions  and  private  schools  in  which  there  is  something 
like  system.  But  usually  there  is  not  that  system  which  is 
pursued  with  boys.  A  boy  goes  through  a  regular  course  in 
preparing  for  college.  He  then  enters  college,  and  has  to 
pass  through  a  regular  course  of  study  with  great  care,  and 
by  a  system  based  on  wide  experience.  But  girls  go  through 
with  nothing  of  the  kind.  They  change  from  school  to 
school,  studying  indiscriminately,  and,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  the  beginning,  middle,  and  end  of  their  education  have 
no  reference  one  to  the  other.  It  is  a  common  thing  in  this 
country  to  send  daughters  to  the  Eastern  cities  to  finish  their 
education ;  as  though  a  lady  in  Philadelphia,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  their  previous  education,  could  know  how  to  complete 
the  plan. 

"  It  is  for  the  removal  of  these  difficulties  that  I  am  seek- 
ing. I  wish  those  of  more  experience  to  tell  me  how  it  is 
that  the  great  end  is  to  be  gained.  This  is  the  object  I  have 
in  view  in  presenting  these  remarks  to  the  College  of  Teach- 
ers. And  in  order  that  I  may  be  understood,  allow  me  to 
lay  before  you  as  briefly  as  I  can  a  COURSE  OF  STUDY, 
which,  with  my  short  experience,  I  have  undertaken  to 
arrange  ;  claiming  nothing  more,  than  that  others  shall  tell 
me  wherein  I  am  wrong. 

"  My  proposal,  then,  would  be,  that  girls  should  not  come 
to  school  till  they  are  eight  years  of  age.  Before  that,  at 
home,  I  would  have  them  taught  to  read,  at  least,  and,  if 
possible,  to  write. 

"  And  here  let  me  say,  that  in  this  early  education  it  is 
that  the  woman,  more  than  at  any  other  period,  can  guide 
the  future  course  of  the  child.  The  mother  at  home  will 
determine  in  a  great  measure  all  that  the  teacher  can  do. 
He  can  do  nothing  with  a  child,  if  she  has  an  unfaithful 


MANHOOD.  235 

mother  at  home.  I  propose  that  the  girl  of  eight  shall  come, 
able  to  read  and  write,  and  that  is  all  I  would  ask.  My  plan 
during  the  first  year  would  be  to  detain  her  but  three  hours 
in  school,  and  I  should  confine  her  to  reading,  with  defini- 
tions, spelling,  and  grammar,  orally  taught;  to  geography, 
taught  with  history  and  natural  history,  and  these  in  a  great 
measure  orally,  too;  to  writing  and  drawing;  to  these,  with 
story-telling,  I  would  limit  my  instruction  during  the  year. 
I  should  like  to  spend  an  hour  every  da*y  telling  stories,  as 
by  so  doing  the  powers  of  language,  composition,  observa- 
tion, and  imagination  may  all  be  brought  out  and  cultivated. 
I  would  have,  too,  regular  conversations,  and  thus  do  what 
we  do  not  do  at  present,  cultivate  the  power  of  conversation. 

"  During  the  next  year,  I  would  confine  the  child  to  four 
hours  only,  say  from  nine  to  one.  Exercises  the  same,  with 
the  addition  of  arithmetic  ;  and  as  to  geography,  I  would 
give  my  entire  attention  to  the  study  of  American  geogra- 
phy and  history. 

"  Instead  of  giving  general  geography,  and  going  over  the 
whole  world  in  six  months,  I  would  take  a  single  country, 
and  devote  the  whole  year  to  that  country,  and  combine  the 
history  and  natural  history  of  that  country  with  its  geog- 
raphy. 

"  And  I  would  say,  begin  the  study  of  geography  at 
home.  I  know  there  are  some  experienced  teachers  who 
would  first  teach  the  general  science  of  geography,  and 
then  all  the  details  ;  but  I  have  been  convinced  that  a  child 
learns  better  in  geography  with  regard  to  these  great  subjects 
when  details  are  not  understood  at  all.  I  would  begin  here 
at  home,  and  making  them  understand  the  geography  of  our 
own  country,  I  would  go  from  the  centre  outwards,  till  the 
whole  world  should  be  embraced.  So  with  arithmetic,  I 
would  spend  the  first  two  years  in  doing  nothing  but  this,  — 
teaching  the  child  numeration,  notation,  and  the  four  simple 
rules  ;  I  should  not  expect  to  go  beyond  division. 


236  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  In  teaching  arithmetic  at  the  outset,  I  think  we  err  in 
not  presenting  some  visible  external  objects.  A  child  may 
be  taught  by  means  of  blocks  with  great  ease.  I  know  this, 
because  I  have  taken  children,  and  by  means  of  a  few  scraps 
of  paper  have  made  them  comprehend  perfectly  the  whole 
theory  of  numeration  ;  and  any  one  knows,  when  that  is  truly 
understood,  arithmetic  presents  no  difficulty  at  all ;  they  go 
through  arithmetic  as  easily  as  they  would  walk  through  a 
grass  field. 

"  During  the  first  and  second  years  I  would  use,  in  addi- 
tion to  a  common  reader  of  some  kind,  some  one  book  pos- 
sessing a  classical  character  ;  but  take  care  that  it  should 
not  be  a  task-book,  and  so  made  hateful.  You  all  recollect 
the  disgust  you  have  felt  from  having  been  forced  to  read 
over  and  over  the  noblest  passages  of  our  literature. 

"  In  this  way  I  would  introduce  children  to  our  best 
English  writers,  while  yet  very  young,  beginning  at  eight 
years,  and  going  on  slowly,  not  introducing  the  higher  au- 
thors till  twelve  or  thirteen.  I  believe  a  girl  at  sixteen  or 
seventeen  may  have  become  acquainted  with  about  sixty  of 
the  best  authors  in  the  English  language,  a  list  which  com- 
prehends all  its  best  classics.  I  have  made  a  calculation 
that,  in  this  way,  by  little  and  little,  and  without  task,  by  giv- 
ing to  the  younger  readers  the  simpler  and  easier  writers,  and 
so  on  up  to  the  voluminous  divines  and  metaphysicians,  &c., 
in  one  hour  a  day,  the  whole  may  be  made  intelligible  and 
familiar  to  a  girl  between  the  ages  of  eight  and  seventeen. 

"  In  the  next  year  (between  ten  and  eleven)  I  should  in- 
troduce the  study  of  Latin. 

"  When  I  began  to  teach  I  was  much  prejudiced  against 
introducing  Latin,  for  I  was  myself  ten  years  learning  it, 
during  which  time  I  was  flosged  till  my  hand  became 
as  hard  as  a  ploughman's,  and  I  was  so  disgusted  with 
the  whole  study  that  I  left  school  and  entered  a  mercan- 
tile life. 


MANHOOD.  237 

"  Feeling  thus,  I  went  on  during  a  year  without  Latin, 
and  the  second  year  tried  the  experiment  of  using  it,  and 
became  then  satisfied  that  it  was  a  proper  study  for  girls. 
They  acquire,  through  that  language,  the  English  language, 
and  come  also  to  the  grammar  of  all  languages  ;  while 
analysis  and  the  power  of  composition  are  cultivated,  as 
nothing  else  will  cultivate  them. 

"  It  was  remarked  some  years  ago  by  President  McGuf- 
fey,  that  to  transfer  a  series  of  ideas  from  one  form  of  Eng- 
lish words  into  another  was  no  exercise  of  the  power  of 
composition,  but  simply  of  analysis,  while  to  translate  from 
one  tongue  to  another  requires  both. 

''•  A  young  man  studying  Csesar  has  to  rewrite  Cccsar. 
He  has  to  take  the  separate  words  and  put  them  together  as 
Csesar  did.  Here  is  an  effort  of  composition.  I  should, 
therefore,  introduce  and  continue  for  four  years  the  study  of 
the  Latin. 

"  During  this  period  I  should  continue  drawing  and  writ- 
ing, and  I  ask  your  attention  to  this.  By  drawing,  better 
than  in  any  other  way,  we  get  that  command  of  the  muscles 
which  makes  a  good  writer.  And  it  cultivates,  also,  the 
sense  of  the  beautiful.  I  would,  therefore,  give  lessons 
every  other  day  in  drawing,  from  simple  forms  to  complex, 
during  the  whole  course,  to  the  age  of  fifteen. 

"  In  the  third  year,  also,  I  would  take  up  the  geography 
of  Europe,  and  the  history  and  natural  history  of  Europe, 
making  the  geography  prominent,  for  that  can  be  understood 
when  history  is  a  sealed  book. 

"  During  the  fourth  year  I  would  give  Asia,  Africa,  and 
the  rest  of  the  world  in  the  same  way. 

"  Between  twelve  and  thirteen,  —  fifth  year,  —  coming 
back  to  America,  I  would  go  over  the  whole  world  as  before, 
making,  however,  the  history  prominent,  and  the  geography 
subordinate. 

"  There  is  one  great  objection,  however,  to  the  plan  just 


238  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

named.  We  have  not  a  book  in  the  language  fitted  for  the 
purpose. 

"  Between  eleven  and  twelve  I  would  introduce  the  writ- 
ing of  compositions  in  the  form  of  stories  that  have  been 
read,  or  something  similar.  I  believe  it  is  true,  and  I  ask 
if  it  is  not,  that  girls  acquire  an  inflated,  false,  and  ridicu- 
lous style,  by  imitating  writers  when  composing  essays  on 
abstract  subjects.  The  result  often  is,  that  when  they  sit 
down  to  write  a  letter,  they  write  the  most  arrant  nonsense 
ever  put  upon  paper.  I  have  read  letters  which  appeared 
to  be  the  quintessence  of  absurdity,  and  I  imputed  it  to  the 
fact  that  they  had  been  called  upon  at  school  to  imitate  fine 
writing. 

"  From  that  time,  the  age  of  twelve,  I  would  continue 
composition  to  the  end  of  their  course.  Up  to  this  age  I 
should  introduce  no  other  studies  but  the  English  grammar, 
and  geography  and  history,  as  already  named,  with  writing 
and  drawing,  and  arithmetic.  After  twelve,  I  would  intro- 
duce algebra,  the  philosophy  and  principles  of  English  criti- 
cism, the  study  of  natural  philosophy  and  history. 

"  And  now  I  ask  you,  if  by  this  plan  studies  would  be 
crowded,  repetition  needed,  the  rudiments  neglected  ?  Up 
to  the  age  of  thirteen,  I  should  occupy  only  four  hours  a 
day.  Increasing  it  to  five  and  a  half  hours  from  thirteen  to 
fourteen. 

"  From  fifteen  to  sixteen,  I  should  introduce  the  study  of 
the  French,  because  some  of  the  best  modern  literature  of 
the  world  is  in  that  tongue  ;  and  for  carrying  out  the  histor- 
ical education,  if  for  nothing  else,  I  would  give  the  young 
this  language,  for  the  greatest  historical  writers  of  our  age 
are  Frenchmen. 

"  During  this  year  I  should  introduce  the  study  of  scien- 
tific natural  history.  At  that  age,  and  not  earlier,  it  may 
be  clone,  without  producing  a  repulsion  to  the  whole  subject. 

"  A  little  child  is  pleased  with  examining  insects  and  ani- 


MANHOOD.  239 

mals  ;  but  if  you  attempt  to  teach  it  nomenclature,  it  is 
disgusted  with  the  whole  subject.  I  would  not  introduce 
natural  history  as  a  science  until  a  more  mature  age,  say 
at  thirteen. 

"  From  fourteen  to  fifteen  I  would  pursue  nearly  the  same 
course.  Passing  over,  from  one  step  to  another,  I  would  in- 
troduce political  economy,  and  after  going  through,  as  they 
would  have  gone  through,  history  as  a  collection  of  facts, 
the  students  may  be  introduced  with  great  benefit  to  such 
knowledge  as  will  make  them  to  understand  what  modern 
history  means.  While  ancient  history  is  a  history  of  war- 
fare, modern  history  is  the  history  of  political  economy  and 
of  government. 

"  Between  fifteen  and  sixteen,  having  gone  through  the 
modern,  we  may  turn  to  the  universal  history  of  civilization, 
so  as  to  be  able,  turning  back  upon  the  part  already  studied, 
to  understand  what  that  is  which  has  been  learned.  Little 
children  are  not  capable  of  reading  history  to  good  purpose. 
Natural  philosophy  and  history  belong  to  comparatively  ma- 
ture minds.  It  is  not  till  we  have  our  powers  of  analysis 
and  composition  educated  that  we  can  truly  learn  them. 
Instead  of  introducing  natural  philosophy  at  nine,  I  would 
not  touch  it  till  mathematics  had  been  gone  through  with, 
just  as  it  is  in  our  colleges. 

"  At  the  period  from  sixteen  to  seventeen,  I  would  take 
up  the  study  of  chemistry,  deferring  it  till  then  for  the  same 
reasons  that  would  lead  me  to  defer  natural  philosophy. 

"  In  that  year,  sixteen  to  seventeen,  I  would  take  up  the 
study  of  technology,  and  here  I  come  to  a  field  not  usually 
entered  by  young  ladies. 

"  A  few  years  ago  an  intelligent  English  gentleman  went 
into  one  of  our  common  schools.  A  gentleman  who  sits  be- 
fore me  was  examining  a  class  on  the  history  of  ancient 
Greece.  The  foreigner  was  astonished,  and  said,  '  What 
schools  you  have  in  Cincinnati ! '  But  when  he  began  to 


240  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

ask  about  the  bricks  and  boards,  and  found  they  knew 
nothing  about  ihom,  lie  said,  '  Why,  it  seems  to  me  that  this 
is  a  disgrace  to  Cincinnati.  While  you  teach  about  Greece, 
two  thousand  years  ago,  you  leave  your  children  ignorant  of 
the  world  right  before  them  ! ' 

"  I  believe  there  is  truth  in  this  criticism,  and  I  would, 
though  not  till  a  late  period,  introduce  them  to  the  arts  and 
practical  occupations  among  men.  It  is  a  study  for  young 
men  at  college  ;  why  not  for  girls  ?  I  would  introduce,  in 
connection  with  it,  statistics,  and,  like  the  Germans,  aesthet- 
ics, or  the  science  of  beauty. 

"  Here,  again,  with  the  exception  of  music,  do  not  girls 
grow  up  ignorant  ?  Who  among  us  is  able,  on  scientific 
principles,  to  determine  the  value  of  the  female  head  sent  to 
Mr.  Longworth  by  Powers?  Who,  educated  here,  can  dis- 
cern the  merits  of  any  great  painting  ?  Very  few,  if  any. 
It  seems  to  me  that,  if  it  can  be  done,  this  subject  of  irsthet- 
ics  should  be  introduced  among  the  studies  of  girls,  for 
with  them  the  science  of  beauty  should  be  understood. 

'•  In  the  last  year,  sixteen  to  seventeen,  I  would  introduce 
the  study  of  political  science,  the  outlines  of  theology, 
medicine,  and  law.  It  may  seem  absurd  that  young  ladies 
should  be  taught  to  be  divines,  and  lawyers,  and  doctors,  but 
surely  they  ought  to  be  doctors  at  least.  If  women  knew 
when  children  are  likely  to  have  the  scarlet  fever,  instead 
of  a  cold,  many  children  would  be  saved,  and  physicians 
might  rest  quietly  in  their  beds.  I  would  teach  the  others, 
also,  for  in  order  to  know  what  is  going  on  in  the  world  they 
must  know  something  of  law  and  theology.  The  great  prin- 
ciples of  them  should  be  embraced  in  such  a  course. 

"  Now,  if  you  will  notice  what  I  have  gone  over,  you  will 
sec  there  are  no  less  than  twenty-five  distinct  subjects  em- 
braced. lU-fore  the  age  of  seventeen,  therefore,  these  studies 
would  have  been  included,  and  the  girl,  if  able  and  faithful, 
would  have  a  better  knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  institu- 


MANHOOD.  241 

tions,  the  trades  and  statistics,  &c.,  of  our  own  city,  and  all 
kindred  subjects,  than  most  of  our  young  men  who  have 
been  at  college  at  a  maturer  age. 

"  And  now  I  come  to  the  last  year,  from  seventeen  to 
eighteen.  This  I  should  devote  entirely  to  a  revision  of  the 
whole  course,  teaching  the  student  how  to  teach  those  things 
she  has  learned.  It  should  be  spent  exclusively  in  teaching 
her  how  to  be  a  professional  teacher,  and  not  to  disgrace  her 
calling  as  an  educator.  And  let  me  say  here,  before  I  close, 
that  not  only  is  the  mother  of  the  greatest  assistance  by  what 
she  does  before  a  child  comes  to  school,  but  she  may  assist 
the  teacher  during  the  whole  period  of  her  attending  school. 
Every  instructor  knows  the  difference  between  a  family  in 
which  an  interest  is  taken  in  the  children's  studies,  and  one 
where  every  study  is  neglected  at  home. 

"  The  father  and  mother  can  do  more  than  words  can  ex- 
press in  perfecting  the  education  of  their  children.  The 
greatest  difference  that  "I  find  is  not  in  the  natural  capacity  of 
children  ;  but  it  lies  in  this,  that  some  have  been  trained  to 
habits  of  industry,  care,  and  thoroughness,  and  others  have 
not  been.  I  find,  when  a  girl  has  been  taught  to  hang  up 
her  bonnet  when  she  comes  home,  she  is  a  better  scholar 
than  if  not  so  taught.  If  taught  at  home  to  make  bread  or 
pudding  thoroughly,  she  will  learn  her  lessons  better  in 
school. 

"  If  a  girl  of  good  mind  is  at  home  thorough,  industrious, 
and  careful,  she  will  be  an  intellectualist ;  but  if  the  oppo- 
site habits  are  taught  at  home,  she  cannot  be  a  good  scholar  ; 
for  these  habits  are  necessary  to  a  good  scholar.  And  I  say 
that,  if  there  be  any  thing  in  the  idea  that  education  should 
not  stop  when  children  leave  school,  but  that  the  young 
woman  should  go  on  till  she  is  twenty-five  before  she  con- 
siders herself  educated,  then  from  eighteen  onward  it  should 
be  the  mother  that  should  guide  the  daughter.  Those  daugh- 
ters who,  when  they  leave  school,  have  mothers  to  sit  down 

VOL.  i.  21 


242  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

with  them  as  their  instructors,  will  go  on  improving,  and  all 
the  allurements  of  society  will  not  drive  them  away  from 
the  means,  and  the  only  means,  of  true  growth. 

"  1  have  thus,  my  friends,  stated,  as  well  as  I  am  able,  the 
end  at  which  we  .should  aim  in  the  education  of  girls.  I 
have  pointed  out  the  defects  in  female  education  which  have 
fallen  under  my  notice  ;  and  I  have  given  you  the  scheme 
which  I  should  be  inclined  to  adopt. 

"I  respectfully  ask  your  continued  attention  to  this  sub- 
ject. For  my  own  part,  believing,  as  I  do,  that,  the  destinies 
of  our  country  hang  upon  WOMAN,  that  she  is  far  more  in- 
fluential at  the  heart  and  centre  than  man  ever  is,  it  appears 
to  me  one  of  the  greatest  questions  that  can  be  brought  be- 
fore us,  '  How  shall  woman  be  thoroughly  and  intellectually 
educated,  during  the  few  years  given  for  that  purpose  ?  ' 

But  Mr.  Perkins's  views  of  education  were  nowise  lim- 
ited to  youth.  His  own  solitary  studies  and  intellectual 
triumphs  had  taught  him  the  worth  of  self-culture  through- 
out the  whole  of  life  ;  and  among  the  mercantile,  me- 
chanic, and  laboring  classes  he  continually  met  with 
men  of  noblest  powers,  who  were  passing  through  the 
world  comparatively  unknown  and  unfelt,  for  mere  want 
of  mental  stimulants.  This  desire  to  welcome  all  to 
that  path  of  progress  which,  once  vigorously  entered, 
leads  upward  for  ever,  prompted  him  to  aid  every  plan 
for  general  enlightenment.  Among  these  were  Libraries, 
Lyceums,  and  Societies  for  Mutual  Improvement.  Of 
the  Young  Men's  .Mercantile  Library  Association  he 
was  a  munificent  patron.  The  Board  of  that  institution, 
in  their  Reports,  acknowledge  the  following  donations  :  — 
in  1S46,  "  of  1-46  volumes,  most  of  them  standard  works, 
and  a  few  of  scarce  and  valuable  editions,  together  with 
valuable  maps  and  charts,"  —  in  1S47,  "of  107  vol- 


MANHOOD.  243 

times  of  rare  works,  with  scarce  and  valuable  maps,"  — 
in  1848,  "  of  60  volumes  "  ;  and  they  accompany  their 
acknowledgments  with  "  heartfelt  thanks  for  his  great  and 
repeated  liberality,"  and  in  token  of  their  gratitude  pre- 
sented to  him  a  right  of  life-membership  in  the  Asso- 
ciation. To  him  was  due,  also,  the  suggestion  and  com- 
mencement of  a  Library  of  Reference,  where  costly 
books  might  be  deposited  for  purposes  of  study,  and  be 
open  for  the  use  of  earnest  inquirers,  with  only  the  re- 
strictions prescribed  by  honor. 

Of  the  Historical  Society  of  Cincinnati,  and  of  the 
Historical  and  Philosophical  Society  of  Ohio, — which 
in  1849  was  removed  from  Columbus  to  Cincinnati,  and 
united  with  the  former  association,  —  Mr.  Perkins  was 
also  a  devoted  and  intelligent  member,  doing  all  in  his 
power  to  keep  alive  a  memory  "  of  that  adventurous  and 
hardy  band  who  first  broke  the  stillness  of  the  forests  of 
the  West,  and  planted  on  her  soil  the  standard  of  free- 
dom and  civilization."  Of  the  Cincinnati  Historical  So- 
ciety, which  was  organized  in  1844,  he  was  the  first 
president, 'and  retained  his  position  till  1847,  when  for 
two  years  he  served  it  as  vice-president  and  recording 
secretary.  Of  the  Historical  Society  of  Ohio  he  was 
elected  first  vice-president  at  its  reorganization  in  1849. 
These  honors  he  well  deserved,  and  office  to  him  was 
never  a  sinecure.  In  the  winter  of  1838,  he  delivered 
an  address  before  the  Ohio  Historical  Society  at  Colum- 
bus, and  in  his  leisure  hours  during  the  remainder  of 
that  season  began  the  preparation  for  his  Annals  of  the 
West,  —  a  work  whose  accuracy,  completeness,  thor- 
oughness of  research,  clear  method,  and  graceful  per- 
spicuity of  style  show  his  admirable  qualifications  for  an 


244  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

* 

historian.  Successively,  in  after  years,  he  wrote  for 
the  North  American  Review  the  series  of  Historical 
Sketches  reprinted  in  the  second  volume  of  this  col- 
lection of  his  writings,  —  sketches  which,  even  as  they 
stand,  form  a  complete  outline  of  Western  history.  His 
penetrating  power  of  analysis,  constructive  imagination, 
regard  for  truth,  sound  judgment,  and  humane  principle, 
are  brightly  manifested  in  these  essays  ;  and  throughout 
is  felt  his  pervading  trust  in  Providence,  and  awe  for  the 
grandeur  of  human  destiny. 

Hut  it  was  not  as  an  historian  only  that  Mr.  Perkins 
discharged  his  duty  as  a  literary  man.  After  the  resig- 
nation of  his  editorships,  he  was  still  a  constant  contribu- 
tor to  leading  papers  and  journals,  of  tales,  poems,  es- 
says, criticisms,  &c.,  losing  no  chance  to  speak  a  good 
word  for  enterprises  of  usefulness,  to  advocate  the  cause 
of  justice  and  mercy,  to  allay  prejudices,  to  guide  the 
public  mind  in  a  right  direction,  and  from  transient  ques- 
tions of  the  hour  to  draw  enduring  lessons.  His  views 
of  the  function  of  the  scholar  and  author,  indeed,  were  in 
the  highest  degree  earnest.  "  Your  principle,"  he  says 
to  a  friend,  in  1839,  "  of  not  writing  for  the  public,  but 
to  please  yourself,  albeit  one  of  Carlyle's  and  I  believe 
of  Goethe's,  I  cannot  subscribe  to.  I  surely  would  not 
have  one  write  unless  he  has  something  —  and  some- 
thing of  deep  interest  to  himself —  to  say  ;  but  I  would 
have  every  student  work  for  his  fellow  '  forked  rad- 
ishes,' let  said  radishes  be  as  strong  and  pungent  as  they 
may.  I  am  fully  of  the  faith,  my  most  philosophic 
friend,  that  if  Jesus  of  Nazareth  had  any  idea  in  his 
mind,  or  feeling  in  his  heart,  or  law  in  his  conscience,  it 
was  this,  —  l  Live  and  labor  for  all  men,  never  asking 
what  they  think  of  you,  nor  caring  how  they  receive  your 


MANHOOD.  245 

efforts.'  And  to  you  as  a  fellow-radish,  let  me  say,  in 
all  frankness  and  without  offence,  that  you  and  I,  and  all 
of  us,  are  in  danger  of  underrating  the  public,  because  we 
feel  that  the  public  underrates  MS.  For  myself,  at  least, 
I  am  well  aware  that  not  a  day  passes  when  I  have  not 
to  struggle  against  the  temptation  to  sneer,  because,  as  I 
feel,  I  am  sneered  at.  And,  as  a  literary  man,  I  know 
that  I  need  frankness,  courage,  humility,  single-hearted- 
ness." Especially  as  a  Western  literary  man  was  he 
intent  to  reach  and  keep  the  highest  mood  of  intellectual 
action;  for  he  felt  how  individual  and  independent,  how 
free  from  traditional  reins  and  cast  loose  to  the  guidance 
of  their  own  genius,  how  practically  zealous,  hopeful, 
enthusiastic,  pliant,  yet  sturdy,  were  the  people  of  the 
Great  Valley,  and  the  thought  shone  out  for  ever  bright 
before  him,  that  in  the  West  was  soon  to  be  throned  the 
sovereignty  of  this  continent.  He  longed  to  be  a  me- 
dium for  the  spirit  of  religious  humanity,  that  he  might 
aid  to  establish  there  that  only  real  freedom  whose  es- 
sence is  love,  whose  form  is  obedience  to  right.  It  is 
this  earnestness  that  makes  the  charm  of  his  verses  and 
narratives  ;  and  this  sincerity  it  was  that  gave  to  his  style 
its  simple  strength. 

How  presiding  conscience  was  in  Mr.  Perkins's  habits 
of  feeling  strikingly  appeared  in  his  aesthetic  tastes  ;  and 
perhaps  this  predominance  of  the  moral  sentiment  over 
the  sense  of  beauty  hindered  his  enjoyment  of  ordinary 
works  of  art.  For  he  kept  ever  present  so  pure  an 
ideal,  that  he  could  rarely  be  pleased.  Yet  that  he  had 
fine  artistic  perception  is  plain  from  the  following  notices 
of  some  masterpieces  of  Powers. 

"  POWEES'S  FIRST  IDEAL  HEAD. — Nicholas  Longworth, 
21* 


246  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

who  was  an  early  and  a  true  friend  of  Hiram  Powers,  has 
just  received  from  him  his  first  original  head,  cut  in  marble. 

"  It  is  a  female  head,  perfectly  simple  in  design  and  ex- 
pression, and  shows  not  alone  flic  pure,  noble,  just  concep- 
tion of  the  artist,  but  also  his  exquisite  skill  in  embodying 
that  conception. 

"  The  head  resembles,  in  its  outline  and  air,  the  Grecian 
sculptures  ;  but  has  not  their  strait,  hard  profile,  nor  their 
unromantic  expression.  The  nose  is  not  Grecian,  nor  is 
the  hair  arranged  formally  after  the  Greek  models,  though 
it  is  so  far  in  that  style  as  to  possess  its  peculiar  grace. 

"  Rut  when,  from  the  mere  outward  being,  we  turn  to  the 
inirard  one,  as  seen  in  the  expression  rather  than  the  fea- 
tures, it  seems  to  us  that  no  Greek,  living  while  woman  was 
what  she  was  in  Greece,  could  have  given  that  which  the 
Christian  sculptor  has  given.  And  what  is  this  ?  \Ve  need 
use  no  hyperbole.  It  is  a  lovely  image  of  feminine  purity, 
combined  with  feminine  affection  ;  the  brow,  the  eye,  the 
lip,  at  once  human  and  superhuman  ;  the  counterfeit  re- 
semblance of  one  tried,  and  rising  above  trial,  — 

1  A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  Life  and' Death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill  : 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warm,  to  comfort,  and  rommand; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light.' 

"  In  a  word,  it  seems  to  us  that  the  artist  in  this,  his  first 
work,  luis  succeeded  most  admirably  in  uniting  the  spirit,  of 

»  O  I 

the  two  great  regions  of  art,  the  classic  and  the  romantic, 
the  Greek  and  the  Teutonic.  And  to  do  this  is  the  ofllce  of 
Christian  art. 

"  Three  hundred  years  ago,  we  all  know  how  perfectly  it 
was  done  in  Italy.  In  our  day,  Germany  bids  fair  to  revive 


MANHOOD.  247 

the  past ;  and  it  is  a  source  of  grateful  wonder  to  us,  that 
from  the  backwoods  of  America  we  have  sent  more  than 
one  laborer  in  the  cause,  —  none  of  them  greater,  none, 
probably,  equal  to  the  one  whose  first  original  work  has 
been  sent  by  him  to  tbe  place  where  his  own  youth  was 
spent,  and  to  one  by  whom  his  youth  was  aided  to  grow  to 
its  present  manhood. 

"  Of  the  details  of  this  head,  words  can  give  no  idea. 
The  drapery  is  faultless ;  the  hair  exquisite  ;  every  curve 
of  the  throat,  the  neck,  and  shoulder  is  given  so  truly  and 
delicately  as  to  make  you  almost  think  it  moving  as  you 
look  ;  and  all  without  any  extravagance  or  mannerism. 

"  The  pleasantest  view  we  thought  to  be  that  from  the 
side  ;  but  the  light  will  determine  the  point  of  view,  and 
every  new  light  will  reveal  new  beauties." 

"  POWERS'S  BUST  OF  JUDGE  BURNET.  —  It  is  one  of  the 
rarest  results  of  art  to'  produce  a  portrait  which  shall  affect 
one  like  a  work  of  imagination,  like  an  ideal.  The  same 
painter  or  sculptor  whose  heads  of  creation  are  full  of 
spirit  and  feeling,  will  make  his  portraits  stiff,  unmeaning, 
and  worthless.  Nature  makes  every  peasant's  head  worthy 
of  careful  study,  but  it  is  as  rare  that  we  find  a  Murillo  to 
represent  it  upon  canvas,  as  a  Scott  to  portray  the  charac- 
ter of  a  Dandie  Dinmont  or  Edie  Ochiltree. 

"  The  portraits  of  Rembrandt  and  Vandyke  are  ideals, 
because  they  have  so  truly  caught  the  spirit  no  less  than  the 
form  of  nature  ;  and  their  works  in  this  department,  though 
lower  than  the  Madonnas  of  Raphael  and  Prophets  of 
Michael  Angelb,  are  surely  among  the  noblest  results  of 
painting.  Mr.  Powers's  busts  may  almost,  if  not  altogether, 
rank  with  the  works  of  those  great  masters  in  that  depart- 
ment ;  that  is,  if  we  may  trust  report  for  most  that  he  has 
cut,  and  our  own  eyes  for  that  of  Judge  Burnet,  lately  re- 
ceived in  our  city. 


248  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  His  head  of  the  Judge,  to  one  who  never  heard  that 
such  a  man  lived,  would  have  as  much  value  as  an  ideal 
piece,  from  its  perfect  re-creation —  for  it  is  not  imitation  — 
of  nature.  When  we  went  to  see  this  head,  a  countryman 
was  sitting  in  the  entry  ;  he  entered  the  room  with  us;  and 
as  his  eye  caught  the  bust,  '  Why,  it  's  the  Judge,'  said  he ; 
not  as  if  he  thought  it  a  bust  at  all,  but  the  man  himself. 
And  so  it  is  the  man  himself;  we  never  saw  a  bust  before, 
in  which  we  failed  to  feel  the  want  of  the  eye  ;  but  here  the 
whole  is  so  perfect,  that  one  sees  the  eye  from  sympathy, 
though  there  is  no  eye  to  be  seen.  The  slight,  but  strongly 
marked,  muscles  of  the  cheek  move  as  you  look  at  them  ; 
the  veins  of  the  throat  swell,  and  the  lips  contract,  as  if  the 
marble  were  about  to  speak  ;  indeed,  one  feels  awkward 
looking  at  it,  it  is  so  like  staring  a  man  out  of  countenance. 

"  The  chiselling  is,  as  all  who  have  seen  Mr.  Longworth's 
'  Ginevra  '  would  expect,  exquisite  ;  indeed,  it  is  so  exquisite, 
that,  combined  as  it  is  with  the  higher  qualities  of  art,  one 
may — incredible  as  it  may  seem  to  young  ladies  —  take  as 
much  pleasure  in  looking  at  this  likeness  of  a  wrinkled  old 
gentleman,  as  in  gazing  upon  the  smooth,  calm  beauty  of 
the  'Gir.cvra'  itself." 

"  POWERS'S  GREEK  SLAVE.  —  This  statue,  now  world- 
renowned,  has  been  for  some  weeks  in  this  city,  and  has 
been  seen  and  admired  by  a  great  multitude.  Such  admi- 
ration, however,  is  in  a  measure  what  we  may  call  second- 
hand ;  that  is,  I  admire  because  Mr.  Spriggs  the  millionnaire, 
or  Dr.  Slop  the  editor,  or  John  Smith,  admired  before  me  ;  — 
the  admiration  is  not  mine,  in  truth,  but  is  his  in  my  hands, 
otherwise  second-handed.  This  false  applause  has  been 
given  to  every  good  thing  in  the  world,  and  of  course  Mr. 
Powers  and  his  Slave  could  not  hope  to  escape.  And  among 
those  who  admired  it  in  their  hearts,  not  with  their  lips  only, 
some  objected  to  the  conception,  others  to  the  expression, 


MANHOOD.  249 

and  a  third  party  to  the  taste  of  the  sculptor  in  making  his  he- 
roine '  nude,'  as  it  is  termed,  which,  heing  translated,  means 
'  stark  naked.'  For  our  own  part,  while  we  feel  in  every 
fibre  the  beauty  of  the  work,  marvel  at  its  execution,  and 
thank  its  creator,  we  cannot  but  object  to  the  taste  displayed, 
the  situation  represented,  and  the  countenance  and  position 
as  suggestive  of  the  situation. 

"  Let  us  first  notice  the  face  and  posture.  Do  these  at 
once  reveal  the  state  of  mind  which  the  supposed  situation 
must  produce  in  any  well-organized  maiden  ?  We  feel 
confident  they  do  not,  from  this  fact,  —  no  Jive  persons  who 
see  the  statue  and  think  it  expressive  see  the  same  expres- 
sion. One  says  she  is  in  prayer  ;  another,  she  is  in  con- 
scious agony  ;  another,  she  is  stupefied  with  agony  ;  a  fourth, 
that  she  has  risen  above  her  trial  by  the  power  of  faith  ;  and 
so  on.  To  us,  she  looks  as  one  might  who  is  about  to 
bathe,  and  heard  a  noise  which  made  her  fear  an  intruder ; 
she  stops,  listens,  is  alarmed,  grieved,  troubled.  The  expres- 
sion, intenser  in  kind,  not  in  degree  alone,  which  shall  at 
once  lay  open  to  you  her  actual  trial  and  her  struggle,  vic- 
tory through  faith,  or  defeat  through  human  weakness,  is 
entirely  wanting. 

"  We  say,  the  expression  should  reveal  at  once  the  state 
of  mind.  Many  persons,  however,  will  object  that  no  great 
works  of  art  or  nature  —  Niagara,  the  Ocean,  Shakspeare, 
Homer,  Raphael,  Michael  Angelo  —  produce  their  full  ef- 
fect at  once ;  they  need  to  be  studied  and  lived  with. 
Most  true,  no  full  spring  was  ever  taken  in  and  exhausted  at 
a  mouthful ;  and  yet  the  first  mouthful  will  give  an  idea  of 
the  quality  of  water  or  wine.  Niagara  is  not  fully  seen  at 
once,  but  the  same  impression  which  is  finally  left  by  its 
waters  in  their  giant  sport  is  that  which  at  first  strikes 
one  ;  the  two  differ  in  degree,  not  in  kind.  And  so  with 
Raphael  or  Buonarroti ;  the  Dresden  Madonna  of  the  first, 
the  Moses  of  the  last,  may  be  studied  for  years,  and  every 


250  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

year  will  unfold  new  beauties  and  wonders,  but  the  nature, 
character,  kind,  of  the  last  impression  and  the  first  is  the 
same.  But,  as  we  see  it,  in  the  face  and  position  of  Mr. 
Powers's  statue,  the  kind  of  expression  is  wanting,  not 
merely  the  full  intensity,  the  degree. 

"  Next,  as  to  its  nakedness.  We  do  not  believe  such  stat- 
ues to  be  incentives  of  licentiousness.  Stronger  incentives 
are  always  within  the  reach  of  the  seekers.  '  To  the  pure,' 
says  St.  Paul,  'all  things  are  pure,  but  unto  them  that  are 
defiled  and  unbelieving  is  nothing  pure.'  This  text,  in  the 
case  before  us,  cuts  both  ways,  as  it  was  meant  to  ;  it  sug- 
gests the  unclean  thoughts  of  too  many  of  those  who,  as 
of  necessity,  see  uncleanness  in  a  naked  woman  ;  and 
also  points  out  the  great  truth,  that  any  painting,  statue, 
or  book,  even  God's  Word  itself,  may  to  the  impure  be- 
come a  source  of  evil  influences.  We  do  not  believe  that 
the  unclothed  figure  is  so  dangerous.  Men  are  excited  to 
evil  by  evil  spirits,  not  by  forms  of  any  kind.  A  woman 
who  exposes  an  arm,  or  an  ankle,  through  the  influence  of 
loose  principles,  will  arouse  the  Satyr  in  them  more  effectu- 
ally than  the  bare  body  of  an  Eve,  or  the  half-clad  form  of 
a  Jeanne  d'Arc.  And  here  lies  the  danger  of  the  model 
artists,  as  distinct  from  the  Greek  Slave  ;  their  motive  is 
Mack,  Powers's  white.  But,  while  we  reject  the  idea  that 
Mr.  Powers's  statue  is  against  good  morals,  we  accept  the 
doctrine  that  it  is  against  good  taste.  In  other  words,  it 
does  not  deprave  us,  make  us  beasts  ;  but  it  does  not  cleanse 
us  and  bring  us  nearer  to  the  angels.  Naked  forms  are 
not  suited  to  our  day.  They  may  be  tolerated  in  Europe 
and  among  us,  but  they  pain  every  pure  man  and  woman 
that  goes  to  see  them.  They  do  not  necessarily  produce 
licentiousness,  but  they  necessarily  produce  suffering ;  they 
are  offensive  to  our  best  citizens  and  best  lovers  of  art. 
It  may  seem  very  funny  to  some,  that  the  '  best  citizens ' 
should  be  allowed  to  sit  in  judgment  on  an  artist,  but  let  us 


MANHOOD.  251 

all  remember  that  whoever  does  most  to  purify,  cleanse, 
and  Christianize  a  community  is  its  best  citizen.  And  why 
are  they  offensive  ?  Because  the  unclad  human  form  is 
suggestive  of  evil  ?  God  forbid  !  No :  it  is  (so  far  as  we 
can  analyze)  because  we  cannot  but  connect  degradation, 
suffering,  purity  cast  down  and  impurity  triumphant,  with 
the  nakedness  of  the  Moslem  captive,  or  that  of  any  other 
woman,  save  only  Eve.  An  Eve  is  not  open  to  this  criti- 
cism, but  how  few  can  in  any  degree  realize  the  position  of 
our  great-great-grandmother  ?  Realize,  for  one  thing,  her 
innocence.  The  naked  Eve  must  be  innocent ;  when  she 
sinned  she  clothed  herself.  We  think  the  Greek  Slave,  then, 
in  bad  taste,  being,  as  it  is,  needlessly,  and  in  opposition  to 
the  common  custom,  presented  in  utter  nakedness  ;  —  not 
because  nakedness  is  in  itself  evil,  but  because  it  can  belong, 
in  the  conception  of  our  day,  only  to  Eden  innocence,  or  to 
degradation,  voluntary  or  compelled. 

"  And  this  leads  us  -to  explain  our  third  ground  of  ob- 
jection, namely,  that  this  statue  is  not  well  conceived.  A 
great  work  of  art  should  appeal  to  our  highest  nature,  and 
so  elevate  our  aims.  It  should  suggest  ennobling,  not  de- 
grading, things.  It  may  be  painful,  but  the  pain  should  be 
forgotten,  lost,  in  the  heaven-tending,  and  so  pleasurable, 
result  suggested.  The  highest  topic  for  a  work  of  art  is  the 
Crucifixion,  because  it  is  a  tragedy  linked  to  the  throne  of 
God  ;  the  topic  is  full  of  pain,  but  infinitely  fuller  of  joy. 
The  self-sacrifice  of  Godiva,  the  martyr-heroine  of  Coventry, 
is  a  subject  full  of  woe,  but  full  of  grandeur  also,  —  worth 
a  seraglio  of  slave-girls.  Treated  historically  (the  heroine 
naked  as  the  Greek  Slave),  it  would  be,  we  think,  in  far 
better  taste  than  the  Slave,  because  so  much  less  painful. 
The  bare  limbs  of  the  English  noblewoman  are  exposed  to 
save  many  families  from  woe,  many  hearths  from  desola- 
tion ;  those  of  the  Greek  Slave  are  to  tempt  the  brutal  pro- 
pensities of  some  rich  Turk.  Or  suppose  a  young  girl  ex- 


252  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

posed  in  the  Roman  amphitheatre  as  a  Chi'istian  ;  let  her  be 
naked  as  she  was  born,  would  her  nakedness  suggest  the 
same  painful,  degrading  ideas  that  the  Slave  does  ?  No.  It 
would  be,  probably,  one  element  of  beauty  melting  into  and 
mingling  with  the  whole  effect.  And  yet,  even  in  the  case 
of  Godiva,  or  that  of  the  Christian  martyr,  it  would,  we 
think,  be  in  far  better  taste  to  clothe  the  figure  to  the  '  edge 
of  beauty.' 

"  We  would  have  this  position,  if  possible,  definite  ;  and 
therefore  our  readers  will  excuse  some  further  illustration. 

"  You  know  the  story  of  Godiva.  Imagine  yourself  pres- 
ent at  her  far-famed  ride,  —  present,  but  unseen.  You  see 
the  white  limbs  glisten  ;  you  feel  the  sacrifice  that  is  made ; 
you  realize  the  infinite  love  that  was  working  in  the  breast 
of  that  unclothed  woman  when  she  bent  her  will  before  that 
of  her  brutal  spouse.  Beautiful  and  unveiled,  as  Venus, 
she  draws  near.  What  do  you  do  ?  You  bow  your  head, 
and  feel  that  the  Spirit  of  God  has  passed  before  you,  sup- 
porting that  shrinking  form.  You  rise  ennobled,  —  with  a 
new  conception  of  the  power  of  faith  and  love,  —  with  a  new 
purpose  in  your  heart  to  serve  God  and  the  right. 

"  Again  ;  —  you  go  to  the  slave-mart  in  some  city  where 
girls  are  exposed  for  sale.  You  see  the  buyers,  cloven- 
footed,  Pan-like ;  the  sellers,  merciless  sons  of  Plutus  and 
Pluto  alike.  A  young,  innocent  child  of  seventeen,  chained 
and  stripped,  is  dragged  before  you  ;  she  rests  in  her  faint- 
ness  upon  the  nearest  support,  and  in  her  intense  woe  for- 
gets her  woe.  What  do  you  do  ?  How  do  you  feel  ?  You 
feel  mere  anguish,  unutterable  sympathy  and  sorrow.  You 
are  not  raised,  but  stricken  down  ;  God  is  not  revealed  by 
an  act  of  self-sacrifice,  he  is  hidden  by  the  predominance  of 
the  power  of  Satan.  When  Godiva  rode  forth  you  cried, 
'  She  goes  in  the  might  of  Heaven  '  ;  when  the  poor  Greek 
shrunk  before  your  gaze,  you  said,  '  Where  is  God,  that 
such  things  are  allowed  ?  ' 


MANHOOD.  253 

"  A  great  artist,  presenting  to  us  a  tragedy,  will  always 
cause  us  to  sympathize  with  the  suffering  portrayed,  and  yet 
will  make  us  forget  that  suffering  in  our  sympathy  with  the 
noble  efforts  that  are  made  by  the  victim.  The  Greek  Slave 
appeals  to  our  sympathy  with  woe,  but  not  at  all  to  our  sym- 
pathy with  spiritual  struggle  and  victory.  Therein  we  think 
it  vitally  defective." 

The  spirituality  that  shines  through  these  extracts  was 
yet  more  manifest  in  Mr.  Perkins's  estimate  of  the  art 
of  arts,  poetry.  With  unconscious  ease,  from  boyhood 
upward,  he  had  poured  forth  verses  ;  but  the  true  poet 
was  to  him  in  so  sublime  a  sense  a  prophet,  that  he  was 
never  willing  to  class  himself  among  that  chosen  band. 
In  a  lecture  on  Polite  Literature,  in  1840,  he  asks, 
"  What  is  it  that  makes  a  work  poetical  ?  I  answer,  it  is 
that  in  it  which  awakens  the  sense  of  the  DIVIDE,  — 
appealing  to  the  heart  through  some  form  of  sublimity  or 
beauty, — some  holy  emotion,  —  some  association  of 
heavenly  affections  with  common  experience.  The  po- 
etic element  is  that  which  lifts  us  to  the  spiritual  world. 
It  is  a  Divine  essence,  that  makes  human  speech  poetry. 
The  two  grand  powers  of  the  poet  are,  first,  that  of  per- 
ceiving what  awakens  a  sense  of  the  Divine,  and  second, 
that  of  expressing  what  is  poetical  in  such  words  and  by 
such  style  as  to  give  its  true  impression.  These  two 
powers  may  exist  apart.  A  critic  may  feel  when  the 
sense  of  the  Divine  is  awakened,  but  he  cannot  be  a 
poet  without  the  inventive  imagination  that  can  give  to  it 
a  local  embodiment  and  a  name.  Poetry  is  not  rhyme 
or  verse  merely  ;  but  it  is  that  chord  in  the  human  heart 
which  sends  forth  harmony  when  struck  by  the  hand  of 
nature,  that  essential  spirit  of  beauty  which  speaks  from 

VOL.  i.  22 


254  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

the  soul,  in  the  highest  works  of  sculpture  or  painting, 
which  gives  eloquence  to  the  orator,  and  is  heard  as  the 
voice  of  God."  It  was  in  his  eloquence  as  an  orator, 
that  his  own  poetic  genius  most  appeared. 

The  generous  aims  which  prompted  Mr.  Perkins  to 
communicate  freely  of  his  inmost  life,  as  a  writer,  made 
him  rejoice  to  use  the  means  of  access  to  the  minds  of 
his  fellows  given  by  the  modern  method  of  popular  lec- 
tures. In  his  very  first  year  of  Western  life  he  delighted 
large  audiences  hy  his  rare  gift  of  speech  ;  and  not  a 
winter  passed  without  his  taking  his  turn,  once  or  often- 
er,  in  the  courses  of  the  Mercantile  Library  Association, 
the  Mechanics'  Institute,  the  Lyceum,  the  Society  for 
the  Promotion  of  Useful  Knowledge,  or  the  College 
Fraternities.  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  I 
first  heard  him  address  a  public  assembly,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  impression.  There  is  a  shock  of  pleas- 
ant surprise  in  seeing  one  who  has  been  a  bosom  friend 
revealed  as  the  centre  of  attraction  for  a  crowd  of  stran- 
gers. The  heart  beats  and  the  breath  comes  quick  with 
sympathetic  apprehension.  "  Will  he  be  worthy  of  his 
highest  hours,  and  before  this  multitude  approve  him- 
self as  that  man  whom  I  have  known  ?  "  I  was  in- 
stantly reassured.  The  very  movement  of  Mr.  Perkins 
as  he  entered  the  desk,  so  subdued,  yet  tranquil,  —  the 
quiet  equipoise  of  his  tall  figure  as  he  rose  to  speak,  — 
the  deliberate  intonation  and  articulateness  of  his  open- 
ing words,  —  the  measured  volume  of  his  voice,  —  its 
mellow  music  so  richly  various,  —  the  graceful  dignity 
of  his  gesture,  —  his  air  of  unaffected  interest  in  his 
theme,  —  the  commanding  beauty  of  his  smile  and  eye 
and  rounded  temples,  — and  finally,  his  magnetic  charm, 


MANHOOD.  255 

which  was  singularly  strong,  —  all  conspired  to  captivate 
me,  and  before  the  hour  was  ended  my  judgment  was 
clear,  that  the  playmate  of  my  boyhood  had  become  in 
his  mature  years  a  master  of  oratory.  This  conviction 
was  only  deepened,  as  I  heard  him  oftener  and  became 
familiar  with  his  style.  I  have  listened  to  many  of  our 
nation's  most  admired  speakers  in  the  Pulpit,  at  the 
Bar,  on  the  floor  of  Congress,  on  the  platform  of  Re- 
form Meetings,  and  before  Literary  Associations  ;  but, 
after  making  allowance  for  the  partiality  of  affection,  I 
must  deliberately  say,  that  for  variety  and  harmonious 
combination  of  faculty  I  have  never  heard  Mr.  Perkins's 
superior,  and  rarely  his  peer.  Especially  was  he  re- 
markable for  a  calm,  transparent  truthfulness,  which 
carried  up  the  hearer,  through  mere  outward  attractions 
of  diction  and  manner,  to  communion  with  the  very 
spirit  of  the  speaker.  This  profound  sincerity  gave  to 
his  briefest  utterance  the  unction  of  a  religious  appeal. 

It  seemed  but  providentially  fit,  that  a  man  who  had 
been  refined  through  such  complex  experience,  and  was 
so  consecrated  to  heavenly  ends,  should  become  a 
PREACHER.  And  on  the  first  occasion  when  aid  was 
needed,  he  was  invited  to  take  my  place  in  the  pulpit. 
The  congregation  honored  him  so  highly,  that  his  pres- 
ence there  was  grateful  to  their  feelings,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity seemed  a  worthy  one  for  manifesting  the  faith, 
that  the  true  ordination  for  administering  the  Gospel  is 
not  a  laying  on  of  human  hands,  but  an  influx  of  the 
Divine  Spirit.  Though  reluctant  when  the  proposal 
was  made,  my  friend  decided,  on  reflection,  that  he 
ought  to  yield  to  the  request ;  and  by  that  step  he  en- 
tered on  his  highest  vocation.  It  became  instantly  clear 


256  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

that  the  Pulpit  was  the  very  place  to  call  forth  all  his 
powers.  And  the  result  was,  that,  when  in  the  summer 
I  visited  the  East,  he  supplied  the  desk  to  full  accep- 
tance ;  and  when  in  1841  I  resigned  my  charge,  by  the 
unanimous  voice  of  the  society  he  was  invited  to  become 
their  minister.  He  accepted  the  duty,  though  only  in 
part  and  as  a  temporary  relation  ;  for  the  position  of  a 
professional  priest  and  pastor  was  repugnant  alike  to  his 
taste  and  judgment,  and  he  wished  rather  to  be  one  of  a 
religious  brotherhood,  who,  each  in  turn,  should  be 
dispensers  of  devout  illumination  and  charity. 

But  distrust  of  his  own  fitness  to  be  a  spiritual  guide 
was  yet  further  a  motive  for  not  assuming  the  full  re- 
sponsibilities of  the  clerical  office.  In  answer  to  a  let- 
ter urging  him  to  retain  his  position,  he  says  :  — 

"  My  feeling  of  trouble  at  occupying  the  pulpit  has  come 
from  the  consciousness  that  I  do  not  approximate  to  the 
character  which  a  Christian  teacher  should  possess.  The 
people  have  been  kind  and  attentive  ;  the  church  has  been 
filled,  and  I  presume  no  one  would  dissent  from  my  becom- 
ing the  regular  clergyman.  But  my  temper,  my  habits, 
my  whole  spirit,  are  such,  I  am  entirely  aware,  as  could 
not  Christianize  any  people.  Did  I  feel  myself  even  de- 
cently pure,  true,  just,  and  kind,  I  should  delight  to  labor  as 
a  pastor,  while  I  supported  myself  as  a  teacher,  and  let  all 
means  go  to  other  purposes.  And  should  I  live  to  be  forty, 
and  succeed  as  a  teacher,  —  both  very  questionable  points, 
—  it  will  be  my  hope  to  assume  such  a  position,  stronger, 
wiser,  better  disciplined,  and  more  able  to  direct  some  of 
my  fellow-beings  heavenward.  Meantime,  bard  work  for 
the  body,  study  for  the  mind,  and  restraint  and  whipping  for 
the  Old  Adam  !  " 

To  this  expression  of  natural  misgiving  I  could  but 


MANHOOD.  257 

reply  very  much  in  the  words  which,  years  before,  he 
had  addressed  to  myself,  in  a  similar  season  of  humilia- 
tion. Plis  letter  was  as  follows  :  — 

"  The  state  of  mind  in  which  you  are  is,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  a  very  desirable  one.  The  sense  of  progress,  and  a 
determination  to  go  on,  —  what  can  be  better  suited  to  your 
profession  ?  One  that  1ms  been  through  this  warfare,  that 
has  battled  with  his  faults  and  vanquished  them,  seems  to 
me  of  all  men  to  be  best  fitted  to  guide  others  in  the  true 
course.  He  has  a  definite  notion  of  the  evils  which  men 
need  to  be  constantly  cautioned  against,  of  the  snares 
which  beset  the  paths  of  those  who  are  just  entering  life, 
and  of  the  mode  of  avoiding  these  snares.  The  gross  vices 
of  sense  are  so  well  known,  that  it  scarce  requires  more 
than  common  refinement  to  be  able  to  say  all  that  can  be 
said  against  them  ;  but  to  warn  others  of  selfishness  in  its 
myriad  forms,  to  put  them  on  their  guard  against  those 
mean  states  of  mind  which  injure  many  more  fine  natures 
than  coarse  vices,  demands  that  kind  of  education  which 
can  be  gained  only  by  a  struggle  with  the  foes  themselves, 
—  or,  to  use  a  popular  phrase,  only  by  having  '  gone  through 
the  mill '  one's  self.  To  a  certain  extent  you  have  done  this  ; 
and  this  experience  will  ultimately  give  you  far  more  knowl- 
edge than  any  amount  of  theological  reading  could  do  of 
the  vital  springs  of  human  action,  and  of  the  daily,  hourly, 
momentary  faults  of  human  nature,  —  faults  to  commit 
which  there  is  not  only  now  and  then  an  outward  tempta- 
tion, but  a  continual,  standing  temptation  within." 

Faultless,  or  wholly  freed  from  the  evils  of  tempera- 
ment, training,  caprice,  indulgence,  habit,  Mr.  Perkins 
confessedly  was  not  ;  but  progressive,  aspiring,  humble, 
honest,  centrally  disinterested,  he  undeniably  was.  The 
inmost  impulse  of  his  will  was  right.  His  eye  was 
22* 


258  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

single.  He  had  chosen  the  Good  as  his  law.  His  life 
was  to  seek  the  inspiration  of  Divine  Love,  and  to  make 
his  thoughts  and  acts  a  fitting  medium  for  its  transmis- 
sion. His  spiritual  growth  had  been  gradual,  but  sure  ; 
and  the  very  external  changes  winch  to  superficial  ob- 
servers might  appear  like  vacillation  were  really  the 
sign  of  his  unswerving  unity  of  aim.  From  his  entrance 
upon  manhood,  Moral  Development  had  been  the  end 
to  which  he  had  made  all  plans  and  interests  subservient. 
In  childhood  it  had  not  been  his  privilege  to  breathe  a 
sphere  of  subduing  religious  influence,  and  in  youth 
lonely  struggles  and  weariness  of  the  world  had  shut  him 
up  for  a  time  in  stern  despair.  But  as  life  opened  be- 
fore him,  as  friendship  tempered  his  severe  judgments, 
as  wider  observation  of  mankind  called  out  pity  and  rev- 
erence, and  especially  as  love  quickened  his  dormant 
affections,  the  frown  of  Fate  was  transformed  above  him 
into  the  smile  of  Providence.  His  first  step  towards  a 
holy  life  was  this  conviction  that  Sovereign  Goodness 
ever  led  him,  weak  and  wayward  though  he  might  be,  by 
the  hand.  His  next  was  a  clear  sight  of  the  true  end  of 
existence.  Even  in  boyish  speculation,  death  and  the 
unseen  world  had  strangely  fascinated  his  imagination  ; 
and  a  constant  topic  of  our  talk  had  been  preexistence 
and  futurity.  But  as  the  tantalization  of  ordinary  pur- 
suits grew  plain,  and  the  degradation  of  prevalent  world- 
liness  filled  him  with  disgust,  he  longed  for  an  interest 
worthy  of  manly  devotion.  He  found  it  in  the  assurance 
of  immortality.  I  have  rarely  seen  a  person  so  pene- 
trated with  the  truth  that  the  life  of  life  is  the  spirit's 
growth. 

It  was  from  intuition  and  science,  however,  that  Mr. 
Perkins  had    been  led   to    these    convictions  of  Provi- 


MANHOOD.  259 

clence  and  immortality,  for  at  that  period  he  was  a  skep- 
tic in  regard  to  the  Christian  religion.  But  as  he  be- 
came more  aware  of  his  own  frailty,  and  found  by  sad 
experience  how  prone  he  was  to  fall  short  of  his  ideal, 
and  as  the  mystery  of  sin  in  mankind  at  large  forced 
itself  upon  his  attention,  he  asked  himself  whether  there 
was  not  a  deeper  significance  than  he  had  been  apt  to 
credit  in  the  doctrines  of  redemption.  It  was  at  this 
period  that  he  found,  as  lias  been  said,  a  guide  in  Cole- 
ridge. The  "  Aids  to  Reflection  "  he  did  not  merely 
read  through  attentively,  but  he  pierced  by  zealous  study 
to  its  central  truths,  and  worked  out  faithfully  its  rich 
veins  of  suggestion.  In  his  copy,  fly-leaves,  margins, 
blank  spaces,  are  completely  filled  with  notes,  queries, 
illustrations.  And  to  Coleridge  he  always  looked  as  to 
his  Christian  father.  Not  because  he  adopted  his  leader's 
theological  opinions,  for  many  of  these  he  rejected,  while 
others  he  received  in  only  a  modified  form  ;  but  because 
he  did  recognize  the  distinction  so  justly  drawn  by  that 
philosopher  between  prudence,  morality,  and  spiritual 
life.  From  the  universe,  through  humanity,  he  longed  to 
ascend  to  Divine  communion  ;  and  saw  in  Nature,  Rea- 
son, and  Revelation  that  "•  Unity  in  Trinity,  which  all 
may  receive  :  God  the  Creator  and  Governor,  seen  in 
Nature,  —  God  the  Redeemer,  seen  in  Revelation,  — 
God  the  Sanctifier,  purifying  the  heart  through  Reason, 
—  One  God,  in  Three  Forms."  * 

At  the  time  when  Mr.  Perkins  began  to  preach,  he 
felt  the  pressure  of  moral  infirmity.  The  very  position 
that  he  assumed  in  the  pulpit,  and  his  whole  tone  of  dis- 
course, showed  how  conscious  he  was  that  he  had  not 

*  See   his  lecture  on  the  Relations  of  Nature,  Reason,  and  Revela- 
tion.    Western  Messenger,  1640. 


260  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

attained  to  peace  or  light.  He  was  a  seeker,  intellect- 
ually and  spiritually,  and  professed  to  be  nothing  more. 
Usually,  he  rather  lectured  than  sermonized,  and  pre- 
ferred to  read  prayers  from  a  liturgy,  rather  than  to  utter 
the  confessions  and  aspirations  of  his  o\vn  heart.  So 
fearful  did  he  seem,  indeed,  of  vitiating  by  affected  feel- 
ing what  inward  life  he  had,  that  he  was  plain  even  to 
carelessness  in  his  style  of  address,  and  familiar  to  the 
verge  of  commonplace  in  his  topics  and  illustrations. 
Yet  however  trite  his  theme,  and  however  off-hand  his 
manner,  there  was  always  a  concentrated  earnestness  in 
his  look,  and  a  tremulous  emotion  beneath  the  calmness 
of  his  voice  and  gesture,  that  irresistibly  won  respectful 
sympathy  ;  and  at  times  he  unpremeditatedly  rose  into 
sustained  flights  of  sublimest  thought,  and  poured  forth 
his  feeling  in  most  pathetic  devotion.  "  Though,  as  I 
came  late,  I  stood  outside  the  door,"  said  once  a  visitor 
to  the  church,  "  and  could  not  hear  distinctly  a  single 
word  of  his  prayer,  yet  his  mere  tone  and  accent  were  so 
profoundly  affecting,  that  I  was  moved  to  tears."  It  was 
the  humility  of  his  attitude,  as  he  stood  side  by  side  with 
his  hearers,  and  the  simple  truthfulness  with  which  he 
asked  illumination  from  on  high,  that  gained  their  confi- 
dence. He  was  pure  from  pretence  ;  he  brought  no 
false  fire  to  the  altar  ;  he  drew  from  a  reserved  force  of 
character  ;  he  was  ascending,  and  as  he  mounted  to  se- 
rener  heights  his  stature  rose  in  dignity,  and  his  counte- 
nance grew  bright. 

As  the  earliest  sermons  of  Mr.  Perkins  were  the  only 
ones  which  I  heard,  it  must  be  left  to  other  friends  to 
describe  the  impression  produced  by  his  preaching. 
Judge  Walker  thus  bears  his  testimony  to  its  power  :  — 


MANHOOD.  261 

"  It  is  within  the  truth  to  say,  that  no  society  could  be  more 
devoted  hearers.  And  speaking  for  myself,  I  unhesitatingly 
declare,  that  his  sermons  and  lectures,  for  solid  sense,  clear- 
ness of  expression  and  arrangement,  practical  utility,  free- 
dom from  bigotry,  all-embracing  charity,  beautiful  simplicity, 
and  earnest  piety,  surpassed  any  which  I  ever  heard.  He 
spoke  for  the  most  part  extemporaneously  ;  and  yet  he  was 
seldom  known  to  recall  a  word  as  misplaced,  or  a  thought 
as  misapplied.  On  the  contrary,  the  most  laborious  efforts 
at  composition  could  not,  apparently,  have  improved  either 
the  diction  or  arrangement  of  his  discourse." 

And  Mr.  William  Greene,  an  earnest  yet  discriminat- 
ing admirer  of  good  preaching,  thus  shows  the  quality 
and  source  of  his  influence  :  — 

"  It  was  the  capital  feature  in  Mr.  Perkins's  character, 
and  perhaps  the  truest  mark  of  his  acknowledged  greatness, 
that  he  lived  and  worked  for  God  and  humanity,  and  never, 
apparently,  for  any  personal  advantage,  even  that  of  repu- 
tation. His  superiority  consisted,  in  good  measure,  in  not 
presenting  himself  in  what  he  did,  as  that  of  most  persons 
does  in  the  reverse.  He  seemed  not  to  have  a  particle  of 
ambition  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  that  word,  nor  a  particle 
of  the  vanity  which  is  almost  always  at  the  bottom  of  it.  In 
all  my  knowledge  of  men,  and  among  all  my  acquaintance, 
I  think  in  these  particulars  he  was  without  an  equal. 

"  He  never  delivered  a  five  minutes'  speech  that  he  did 
not  leave  an  impression  to  be  borne  away,  and  to  make  him 
remembered.  He  rarely  preached  a  sermon  that  was  not 
pronounced  '  grand.'  And  this  was  not  a  word  merely  of 
the  moment  and  of  the  tongue  that  uttered  it.  It  was  felt  in 
every  hearer's  deepest  heart  to  be  true.  '  Was  not  that  a 
great  and  wonderful  discourse  ! '  How  often  have  Judge 
Walker  and  myself  interchanged  that  exclamation  as  we 


2G2  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

were  coming  out  of  church  !  And  how  have  the  dozen,  male 
and  female,  around  us  hunt;  with  the  wannest  sympathy 
upon  our  involuntary  utterance,  —  an  utterance  which  was 
only  a.  thinking  aloud  of  what  could  not  he  suppressed. 
His  'last  sermon'  was  generally  his  'best';  though  the 
feeling  in  reference  to  the  previous  one  had  been,  that  not 
even  he  could  excel  it  in  any  future  effort.  In  this  statement 
I  feel  that  I  am  speaking  without  exaggeration,  as  I  am  cer- 
tainly without  the  sentiment  of  it.  I>ut  the  statement  would 
be  imperfect  if  I  did  not  add,  that,  in  all  this  glorious  out- 
pouring of  intellect  and  spirit,  he  appeared  to  he  utterly  un- 
conscious of  the  power  he  was  exerting,  and  of  the  effect  he 
produced.  When  I  occasionally  talked  to  him  of  this,  —  as 
in  moments  of  close  confidence  1  could  not  help  doing, —  it 
was  quite  evident  to  me  that  I  touched  his  humility  rather 
than  his  pride.  lie  knew  1  was  incapable  of  flattering  him, 
and  therefore  was  not  ollended  ;  but  I  have  thought  at  such 
times,  that  his  manner  indicated  a  sort  of  kind  pity  of  the 
judgment  that  could  so  estimate  the  powers  of  so  humble  a 
creature  as  lie  felt  himself  to  he. 

"  There  arc  those  who,  acknowledging  the  fact  of  his 
influence,  might  curiously  inquire  in  what  consisted  the 
mighty  power  of  this  great  man  as  a  preacher.  It  was  not, 
ct rtainlv,  in  what  would  be  called  the  originality  of  his 
topics,  for  these  were  generally  of  the  most  every-day  and 
familiar  kind.  Indeed,  some  of  his  noblest  efforts  have 
been  upon  commonplace  occurrences,  not  twenty-four  hours 
old  at  the  time  when  he  would  astonish  us  with  his  amazing 
powers  of  statement  and  analysis,  or  by  the  inculcation  of 
some  most  impressive  lesson  which  they  suggested.  Nor 
was  any  considerable  part  of  his  power  in  any  thing  that 
was  merely  oratorical  ;  for  his  manner,  though  always  ear- 
nest, was  always  simple.  He  had  no  tricks  of  imposing 
form,  as  too  many  have,  to  eke  out  deficiency  or  inanity 
of  substance. 


MANHOOD.  263 

"  It  has  occurred  to  me,  that  his  chief  power  as  a  preacher 
consisted  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  practical  man,  and  as 
such  felt  a  deep  and  earnest  sympathy  with  the  spiritual 
wants  that  pertained  to  the  current  life  of  every  class.  He 
felt  that  every  event  in  the  development  of  humanity,  of 
whatever  grade  in  the  scale  of  merely  factitious  standards, 
was,  in  solemn  reality,  an  essential  part  of  the  Providence 
of  God,  and  as  such  of  highest  moment  in  the  proper  esti- 
mate of  man.  Acting,  thinking,  and  speaking  under  this 
conviction  to  others,  with  the  application  of  his  extraordi- 
nary intellectual  power  in  enforcing  his  thoughts,  he  gave 
to  ordinary  experiences  a  commanding  interest.  Thus  he- 
made  every  listener  feel  that  he  had  a  direct  personal  con- 
nection with  the  most  transient  concerns  of  the  community, 
and  relations  of  duty  of  which  he  had  never  thought  before. 
Hundreds  of  times  I  have  gone  away  from  his  preaching 
with  precisely  the  feeling  that  I  have  here  tried  to  express, 
surprised  to  recognize  -the  importance  of  matters  which  I 
had  been  wont  to  pass  by  as  too  trifling  for  attention. 

"  Our  friend's  influence  as  a  preacher  grew,  too,  in  part 
from  his  relations  to  public  institutions.  Thence  he  brought 
experience,  and  to  them  communicated  again  new  interest. 
To  him  was  conceded  by  judicious  minds  that  authority 
which  is  due  only  to  unpretending  and  assured  wisdom, 
united  with  the  spirit  of  disinterested  benevolence.  Every 
one  felt,  that  his  word  was  true,  and  his  advice  considerate 
and  well  matured.  This  distinction  gave  him  a  sway  over 
public  opinion,  which,  at  the  same  time  that  it  devolved 
upon  him  the  weightiest  responsibilities  for  the  public  good, 
he  did  not  fail  to  apply,  and  with  gratifying  success,  to  the 
most  honorable  and  useful  ends. 

"  And,  again,  his  preaching  was  impressive  from  the 
well-known  fact  that  his  ordinary  life  was,  from  day  to 
day,  habitually  and  systematically  devoted,  in  some  form  or 
other,  to  doing  good,  —  either  in  teaching  the  young,  coun- 


264  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

selling  the  old,  relieving  the  wants  of  the  needy,  comforting 
the  sick  and  the  alllicted,  or  reclaiming  the  vicious.  All 
remembered  that  he  was  ready  for  these  works  at  a  mo- 
ment's call,  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  at  all  hours  of  day 
and  night,  and  in  all  weathers :  and  that  they  were  done  so 

o  * 

quietly,  that  any  amount  of  them  might  have  distinguished  a 
given  period,  and  the  world  have  been  no  wiser,  except  as  ac- 
cident might  disclose  what  his  disinterestedness,  ditiidence, 
and  modesty  would  have  preferred,  and  even  sought,  to 
conceal." 

And,  finally,  an  earnest  and  high-minded  woman  thus 
records  to  a  friend  the  c fleet  of  Mr.  Perkins's  sermons 
upon  herself :  — 

"  They  used  often  to  begin  like  mere  conversations,  and 
were  almost  always  about  what  seemed  the  most  familiar 
things.  We  were  astonished,  not  so  much  that  he  preached 
on  uncommon  subjects,  as  that  he  treated  them  in  so  un- 
common a  manner,  and  that  his  preaching  embraced  so 
many  topics  which  would  not  be  considered  strictly  relig- 
ious. His  power  of  securing  and  enchaining  the  attention 
was  one  of  his  most  remarkable  gifts.  Whatever  one's 
mood  might  be,  or  however  much  absorbed  in  other  con- 
cerns, he  never  failed  to  arrest  the  thoughts  and  to  keep 
them  till  the  last  word  was  uttered.  Whether  you  agreed 
with  him  or  not,  he  was  almost  equally  interesting ;  and  his 
main  object  seemed  to  be  to  leave  the  minds  of  others  per- 
fectly free.  He  was  incapable  of  exercising  any  thing  like 
tyranny,  and  at  the  same  time  had  great  power  of  convin- 
cing. He  communicated  his  own  expansiveness  of  thought 
and  greatness  of  soul  ;  and  I  used  to  feel,  when  I  was  lis- 
tening to  him,  that  I  was  great  too.  I  never  wished  to 
speak  after  I  came  out  of  church  ;  and  it  was  often  a  sore 
trial,  after  hearing  some  of  his  finest  sermons,  to  be  obliged 
to  talk,  even  with  those  I  liked.  I  could  not  bear  to  have 
the  influence  pass  away. 


MANHOOD.  265 

"  I  have  not  to  regret  that  I  did  not  appreciate  him  more 
fully,  for  I  could  not  have  listened  to  him  with  more  ear- 
nestness, it  seems  to  me,  if  I  had  known  how  soon  we  were 
to  lose  him  ;  and  there  was  always  a  feeling  of  insecurity 
about  his  health,  which  made  me  value  every  opportunity  of 
hearing  him  speak.  He  seemed  to  me  the  greatest  arid 
most  effective  preacher  whom  I  had  ever  listened  to,  and  no 
one  ever  impressed  me  so  deeply  with  the  reality  of  his 
religious  faith.  I  should  have  fancied  it  was  from  some  pe- 
culiarity of  my  own  mind  or  temperament,  that  his  preach- 
ing was  so  much  more  satisfactory  and  elevating  to  me 
than  that  of  any  one  else,  if  I  had  not  found  that  others 
gained  the  same  strength  from  his  words,  and  felt,  like  me, 
that  they  were  peculiarly  adapted  to  their  own  nature 
and  wants.  It  was  because  his  teaching  was  so  broad  and 
comprehensive,  that  it  seemed  especially  suited  to  every 
mind.  Every  thing  was  real  that  came  from  his  lips.  He 
was  incapable  of  falling  into  a  monotonous  manner,  or  ac- 
quiring a  ministerial  tone.  He  said  every  thing  livingly, 
and  gave  to  every  statement  the  freshness  of  a  new  thought. 
He  could  not  be  commonplace  or  dull,  whatever  he  might 
say.  The  more  I  contrast  his  preaching  with  that  of  other 
men,  the  more  convinced  I  am  that  we  did  not  enough  esti- 
mate its  rare  power.  I  have  sometimes  regretted,  with 
others,  that  so  few  of  his  sermons  were  preserved  for  publi- 
cation, but  I  do  not  know  that  this  is  my  permanent  feeling. 
For  in  print  they  must  have  lacked  the  earnest  tone,  the 
matchless  simplicity,  the  freedom  from  excitement  and 
every  attempt  at  effect,  which  constituted  so  essential  a  part 
of  their  character." 

Mr.  Perkins  usually  preached  without  notes,  and  seldom 
prepared  more  than  a  brief  skeleton  of  his  discourses. 
It  was  his  habit  to  meditate  carefully  upon  selected 
topics  during  his  walks,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  before 

VOL.  i.  23 


2G6  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

entering  the  pulj>it ;  but  he  trusted  entirely  to  inspirations 
of  the  hour  for  forms  of  utterance.  He  could  not  be 
persuaded,  either,  that  sermons  which  proved  most  ef- 
fective in  delivery  were  worthy  of  being  written  out  for 
preservation  ;  and  even  the  occasional  ones  which  he  did 
commit  to  paper  were  quickly  destroyed,  for  he  was 
chiefly  anxious  to  forget  the  past  and  to  press  on.  It  is 
impossible,  therefore,  to  give  any  adequate  impression  of 
his  preaching.  Yet,  though  confessedly  an  imperfect 
specimen  of  his  style,  it  may  be  pleasing  to  place  on 
record  here  the  following  sermon.  It  is  of  value  as 
communicating  his  deliberate  judgment  upon  the  princi- 
ples which  should  guide  the  religious  teacher  in  our  age 
and  land. 

1842.  "  Since  we  last  met,  my  friends,  we  have  beard 
of  the  death  of  DR.  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING,  a  man  whose 
talents  and  position,  as  well  as  his  peculiar  connection  with 
the  body  to  which  we  belong,  ask  from  us  some  notice,  now 
that  lie  has  passed  into  another  state  of  being.  Dr.  Cban- 
ning  was  a  native  of  New  England,  and  grew  up  in  New 
England  habits  of  moral  and  religious  sobriety.  He  was 
educated  in  the  common  faith,  and  commenced  bis  life  the 
believer  and  teacher  of  doctrines  very  different  from  those 
he  afterwards  adopted.  What  circumstances  led  bis  mind  to 
change  I  do  not  know  ;  but  at  length  the  struggle  ceased  ; 
the  clouds  that  bad  oppressed  him  broke  away  ;  the  formula 
faith  of  education,  followed  by  the  anxious  skepticism  of  in- 
quiry, gave  way  to  the  clear  and  calm  faith  of  rational  con- 
viction and  spiritual  insight ;  and  the  conqueror  in  the  great 
contest  rose  up  from  it  one  of  the  deepest,  widest,  highest, 
and  purest  thinkers  that  any  age  of  the  world  has  yet  seen. 
This  fact  has  been  recognized,  both  in  this  country  and  in 
Europe,  by  those  who  still  dissent  from  Dr.  Cbanning's 


MANHOOD.  267 

theology  ;  his  fame  is  not  local  or  national  merely,  —  it  is 
as  universal  as  the  English  language.  Some  years  since,  I 
was  in  several  of  the  least  frequented  of  the  West  India 
Islands,  —  islands  where  a  book  was  a  curiosity,  and  even 
the  authors  of  England  scarce  known  but  by  name  ;  yet  I 
found  the  works  of  our  countryman  known  there,  and  known 
with  so  much  of  feeling  that  strangers  sought  me  out  and 
introduced  themselves  to  me,  in  order  to  ask  concerning 
him. 

"  But  widely  as  he  is  known  now,  and  highly  as  he  is  rank- 
ed, both  as  a  writer  and  thinker,  my  own  conviction  is,  that  he 
will  from  this  time  forth  grow  in  the  estimation  of  the  world, 
just  as  the  world  grows  in  true  spiritual  insight,  until  the 
mass  reach  to  his  full  height,  when  new  teachers  must  take 
his  place.  As  yet,  I  believe  that  even  by  his  disciples  this 
great  teacher  is  but  very  imperfectly  understood  ;  and  that 
by  men  at  large,  out  of  the  church  to  which  he  belonged, 
he  is  not  understood  at  all.  He  was,  in  religious  views,  not 
only  beyond  his  time,  but  often  beyond  his  immediate  asso- 
ciates. The  evidence  of  this  may  be  found  in  the  fact,  that 
his  writings  are  intelligible  only  by  spiritual  vision ;  and 
that,  in  consequence,  we  may  all  find  in  them  new  force, 
and  light,  and  truth,  as  our  own  spiritual  sight  is  strength- 
ened. Plain  and  simple,  the  youth  of  twenty  admires  their 
style  rather  than  their  thought ;  at  twenty-five  he  will  for- 
get the  style  in  his  wonder  at  the  grand  truths  and  views 
announced  ;  at  thirty  that  wonder  will  grow  deeper,  when 
he  finds  in  the  volumes  before  him  the  questionings  of  his 
own  soul  answered,  as  if  he  had  laid  his  heart  bare  before 
the  writer ;  and  he  will  remember  as  a  dream  his  former 
study  of  these  same  books  and  passages,  when,  never  hav- 
ing questioned,  they  brought  no  answer.  Some  of  you  saw 
the  pictures  painted  by  Daguerre,  which  were  exhibited  here 
a  few  weeks  since,  wherein,  the  canvas  remaining  un- 
changed, the  simple  change  of  light  made  it  appear  as 


268  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PI- KKINS. 

broad  daylight  or  gentle  moonlight,  or  red  with  the  glare  of 
torches.  So  it  is  with  the  writings  of  Charming, —  they 
change  not,  but  they  seem  to  us  wholly  altered  as  the  light 
shifts  hy  which  we  sec  them.  Some  writings,  that  they 
may  be  understood,  require  a  peetdiar  state  of  the  affections  ; 
others  demand  a  particular  vividness  of  fancy  or  imagina- 
tion ;  others  ask  for  study.  15ut  the  writings  of  Dr  (.'ban- 
ning can  be  appreciated  only  by  the  aid  of  spiritual  ex- 
perience;  their  great  points  are  known  only  when  seen  by 
the  light  of  spiritual  struggles.  To  him  that  has  not  yet 
gone  through  such  conflicts,  study  would  avail  nothing, 
imagination  would  avail  nothing  ;  these  writings  would  re- 
main misunderstood,  or  half  understood.  To  the  most  im- 
aginative they  would  be  worthless,  unless  imagination  had 
risen,  through  trial,  and  effort,  and  victory,  into  faith,  and 
the  mere  conceptions  of  youth  had  become  the  firm  realities 
of  more  mature  years. 

"  Unless  1  mistake,  the  simplicity  of  Dr.  Channing's 
works  causes  many  to  misunderstand  him.  It  seems  so 
very  easy  to  fathom  his  sense,  that  his  whole  meaning  is 
thought  near  bv,  while  in  truth  it  is  only  visible  in  the  infi- 
nite distance.  Ilis  truths  are  like  stars,  equally  near  us,  as 
we  think,  but,  as  the  spiritual  Ilcrsehel  knows,  one  lying 
beyond  another,  off  and  yet  farther  off,  till  their  distance  can 
be  conceived  by  no  human  mind. 

"  He  reminds  me,  in  his  simplicity  and  strength,  of  John 
Marshall,  who  was  in  constitutional  law  what  Channing  has 
been  in  divinity,  —  an  expounder  from  the  depths  of  his 
own  spirit,  and  not  from  authority.  Look  at  Marshall's 
opinions  ;  they  rest  on  truth,  not  on  I'lackstono  or  Chitty, 
neither  on  the  spirit  or  form  of  the  English  law  ;  they  ask 
no  indorser;  they  appeal  to  something  deeper  than  law 
learning  or  reverence  for  old  names,  and  this,  too,  without 
contempt  of  learning  or  ridicule  of  old  names.  Marshall 
never,  like  some  reformers,  ridiculed  the  old,  for  he  rested 


MANHOOD.  269 

on  the  oldest,  —  common  sense  and  common  justice.  In  like 
manner,  and  even  as  Marshall  is  distinguished  from  the  best 
of  his  legal  fellows,  so  is  Channing  distinguished  from  his 
colaborers.  He  rests  not  upon  Luther,  or  Augustine,  or 
Paul,  or  Moses  ;  they  are  too  fallible,  too  modern,  for  him. 
He  goes  to  the  Ancient  of  Days,  to  God,  to  Jesus,  and  learns 
from  them,  as  the  truest  and  the  oldest ;  for  was  not  Jesus 
before  Abraham  ?  the  Word  before  the  world  ? 

"  Dr.  Channing  appears  to  me  to  have  been  a  great  re- 
former ;  one  whose  reformation  has  but  just  commenced, 
however,  and  the  extent  of  whose  influence  no  one  yet 
knows.  He  was  not  an  oral  reformer  mainly ;  he  was  not, 
like  Luther,  Fox,  Wesley,  and  many  others,  most  powerful 
in  the  pulpit,  and  the  same  striking  results  have  not  followed 
his  labor  that  flowed  from  theirs.  He  spoke  through  the 
press,  and,  though  dead,  still  speaketh,  and  long  will  his  si- 
lent tones  appeal  to  men,  and  reveal  the  Father  in  the  Son. 
He  passed  homeward  -just  at  sunset,  we  are  told,  and,  like 
that  of  the  sun,  his  influence  remains  behind  him.  Speak- 
ing as  he  does,  not  to  the  passions,  the  affections,  or  the 
sympathies  chiefly,  but  to  the  conscience  and  spiritual  rea- 
son of  man,  great  immediate  results  could  not  follow  his 
speech.  When  I  consider  how  wide  his  reach,  embracing 
every  variety  of  religious  faith  that  is  not  scholastic  and 
mechanical,  —  the  Catholic  and  the  Quaker,  the  materialism 
of  Priestley,  and  the  transcendentalism  of  Emerson  ;  when  I 
remember  his  power  of  seeing  Truth  under  all  her  countless 
disguises,  and  Error  in  her  borrowed  plumes  ;  when  I  recall 
the  greatness  of  his  moral  principles,  meeting  a  response  in 
every  heart  that  listened  to  them, —  the  purity  of  his  spirit- 
ual conceptions,  so  clear,  so  lofty,  so  truly  spiritual,  and  yet 
never  mystical  ;  when  I  think  of  the  perfect  simplicity  of 
his  views  respecting  Christianity  and  its  great  ends,  —  I 
cannot  doubt  that  the  time  will  come  when  his  opinions 
will  take  hold  of  multitudes  that  shudder  at  the  name  of 
23* 


270  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.     I'KKKI.NS. 

Unitarian,  and  mould  the  faith  of  crowds  that  never  heard 
the  name  of  Channing.  Are  not  his  opinions  already,  like 
the  noiseless  sunshine,  melting  their  way  into  the  icy  heart 
of  scholastic  theology  .'  Are  not  his  old  opponents  re- 
producing from  time  tu  time,  under  new  and  more  technical 
forms,  the  spirit  that  was  breathed  into  them,  without  their 
knowledge  and  against  their  will,  in  long  past  controversies  ? 
'•  During  the  last  few  years  \>r.  Channing  has  entered  a 
new  field,  that  of  ethics,  as  applied  to  policy  and  social 
relations  and  practices.  His  writings  on  war,  temperance, 
amusements,  slavery,  and  the  laboring  classes,  have  been 
widely  influential,  already,  both  here  and  in  Europe.  To 
us,  I  think,  these  writings  should  have  a  peculiar  interest, 
for  the  practical  truths  contained  in  them.  Truths  almost 
universally  recognized  and  welcomed  are,  I  believe,  the 
immediate  and  necessary  result  of  those  spiritual  views 
which  we  wish  to  see  spread  abroad,  and  will  serve,  as 
fruits,  to  make  the  faith  whence  they  sprung  more  widely 
known,  and  fully  believed  in.  In  another  point  of  view 
these  later  writings  are  full  of  interest.  Too  commonly  the 
intellectual  world  has  been  fettered  by  a  false  application 
of  the  principle  of  a  division  of  labor  ;  the  theologian  has 
been  a  mere  theologian,  without  interest  in  earthly  things, 
or,  if  having  interest,  without  liberty  to  express  it;  while  the 
politician,  no  matter  how  firm  a  Christian  in  private,  has 
been  expected  as  a  statesman  to  leave  alone  the  wire-drawn 
distinctions  between  right  and  wrong  which  Christ  teaches, 
and  to  proceed  as  if  this  life  wen,'  all,  and  the  expediency  of 
the  world  alone  to  be  thouuht  of.  The  divine  that  has  med- 
dled in  politics  IKIS  been  thought  no  less  a  meddler  by 
the  world,  than  the  politician  who  should  dare  mount  tiie 
pulpit  would  be  deemed  by  the  clergy.  While  demagogues 
of  twenty  have  been  applauded  on  the  stum]),  and  religious 
teachers  of  no  greater  maturity  idolized  in  the  desk.  Chan- 
ning has  been  rebuked  for  speaking  of  policy  without  expe- 


MANHOOD.  271 

rience.  Men  have  forgotten  that  the  same  eternal  truth 
that  must  guide  the  statesman  in  every  measure  of  govern- 
ment will  interpret  the  world  and  the  Scripture  to  the  open- 
minded  student  of  divine  things.  Men  have  made  policy 
worldly  and  theology  scholastic  ;  have  narrowed  and  hard- 
ened both  ;  have  divorced  what  God  joined  together,  the 
present  and  the  eternal  interests  of  mankind  ;  and  it  was 
needed  that  some  prominent  man,  whose  ability  and  whose 
character  would  command  respect,  should  make  us  sensible 
again  of  that  true  union  of  Church  and  State  by  which  the 
former  is  made  practical,  the  latter  withdrawn  from  heathen- 
ism. And  this  has  been  done  by  him  of  whom  I  speak 
more  perfectly  than  by  any  other  whom  I  know. 

"Many  of  us  may  question  the  application  made  by  Dr. 
Channing  of  his  spiritual  views  to  society  and  national  law  ; 
we  may  think  his  views  of  man  ultra-democratic,  his  views  of 
slavery  destructive  of  the  Union.  But  the  great  example  has 
been  given,  be  the  results  right  or  wrong  ;  the  deepest  and 
purest  spiritual  views  have  been  by  him  applied  to  the  every- 
day concerns  of  the  President's  Cabinet  and  the  Houses  of 
Congress  ;  and  many  thousands  in  our  nation  will  never 
henceforth  be  willing  to  determine  political  matters  by  the 
maxims  of  prudence  or  the  lessons  of  empiricism.  A  high- 
er spirit  than  that  of  expediency,  a  nobler  tone  than  that  of 
party,  has  entered  the  field  of  politics,  and  will  remain  in  it. 
Our  government  may  pass  away,  our  Constitution  be  made 
mere  paper  and  ink,  State  may  separate  from  State,  and 
civil  war  crush  freedom  with  its  iron  heel  ;  but  from  the 
contest,  as  from  every  such  struggle,  will  arise  uninjured 
and  undismayed  the  God-given  principles  involved  in  it.  In 
our  case,  the  principles  of  human  brotherhood  as  it  was 
taught  by  Jesus,  of  God's  paternal  presence,  of  man's  eter- 
nal destiny,  —  sooner  or  later,  these  spiritual  truths  must 
be  as  familiar  to  the  legislature,  and  the  court  of  justice, 
and  the  office  of  the  executive,  as  they  are  to  the  student  of 


272  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

divinity.  Upon  no  other  basis  can  freedom  stand  ;  nothing 
else  can  limit  that  bitter,  that  selfish  feeling  which  we  all 
recognize  in  our  adversaries,  if  not  in  ourselves. 

"  How  deeply  ought  we  to  feel,  then,  our  debt  to  the 
great  teacher  that  has  passed  from  among  us  !  To  how 
many  of  our  firesides  has  his  voice  reached,  and  there 
breathed  faith,  and  hope,  and  joy  !  He  has  been  indeed 
our  friend;  when  death  and  disappointment  have  made  us 
lonely,  this  interpreter  of  our  Saviour  has  brought  Jesus 
home  with  him,  and  our  hearths  have  been  blessed  even  in 
sorrow.  In  losing  him  we  have  lost  a  friend  ;  in  his  death, 
as  one  who  knew  him  well  said  to  me  yesterday,  our  family 
circles  have  been  lessened.  But  not  only  have  we  lost  a 
friend,  an  interpreter, —  our  country  and  the  world  have 
lost  a  prophet  also.  In  days  like  these,  when  we  have  no 
reputation  and  a  doubtful  character,  —  when  so  many  ex- 
tremes arc  aimed  at,  and  \vith  deep  and  evil  feeling,  too, — 
we  need  a  prophet  to  speak  hope  to  the  timid,  decision  to 
the  wavering,  and  a  warning  to  the  headstrong.  The  truest 
that  we  had  is  gone.  But  the  truths  he  taught,  the  spirit 
that  inspired  him,  remain  ;  and  our  best  token  of  the  sorrow 
we  feel  for  his  loss  will  be,  in  private  and  in  public,  to  live 
out  those  truths  and  that  spirit." 

As  minister  of  the  Unitarian  society,  Mr.  Perkins 
was  naturally  classed  with  that  denomination.  And  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  did  believe,  as  he  said  in  1S37,  that, 
"  although  other  forms  of  Christianity  might  appeal  more 
powerfully  to  fear,  wonder,  and  imagination,  no  creed  on 
earth  is  so  fitted  to  touch  the  heart,  and  call  out  love, 
hope,  faith,  trust,  devotion,  as  that  which  tells  of  one 
God,  whose  justice  and  mercy  arc  identical,  whose  good- 
ness is  unchanging,  and  who  chastens  only  as  a  Father, 
while  leading  his  children  onward  through  the  imperfect 


MANHOOD.  273 

to  perfection."  Yet  he  was,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the 
words,  a  Liberal  Christian,  always  ready  to  examine  the 
dogmas  of  the  sect,  while  seeking  for  the  light  of 
universal  truth  ;  humble  and  tolerant,  though  firm  to  his 
own  convictions  ;  free  from  cant  and  arrogance,  while 
seeking  definite  views  ;  thankful  for  illumination  already 
given,  and  aspiring  towards  the  perfect  day.  His  inti- 
mate friend,  Mrs.  H.  Beecher  Stowe,  thus  expresses  her 
view  of  his  spiritual  progress. 

"  Mr.  Perkins's  position,  religiously  considered,  was  one 
to  which  few  will  do  justice.  He  whose  inquiries  after  truth 
are  so  strictly  individual  and  eclectic  as  were  his  finds  little 
sympathy  in  our  religious  community,  where  it  seems  to  be 
an  essential  requisite  that  a  man  should  class  somewhere, 
and  be  enabled  to  state  his  creed  under  some  one  name  of 
the  various  recognized  parties.  When,  therefore,  Mr.  Per- 
kins ceased  to  be  a  Unitarian,  and  yet  could  not  embrace 
in  toto  any  of  the  formularies  of  Orthodoxy,  his  position 
was  in  many  respects  painful  ;  but  I  believe  there  never  was 
a  man  who  approached  more  nearly  the  ideal  of  an  honest, 
unprejudiced  inquirer  after  truth.  Nor  was  he,  in  my  opin- 
ion, one  of  that  unfortunate  class,  who,  from  some  peculiarity 
of  mental  balance,  seem  foredoomed  to  be  always  inquirers 
merely,  and  believers  never. 

"  He  was  capable  of  a  hearty,  settled,  genuine  belief, — 
and  such,  on  many  questions,  he  had  attained  to.  He  first 
approached  the  land  of  moral  inquiry  from  the  side  of 
entire  skepticism,  —  and  how  different  are  the  views  of  one 
who  enters  it  on  that  side  from  his  who  glides  in  upon  the 
tranquil  stream  of  traditional  belief!  It  was  by  earnest 
wrestling,  by  vigilant  and  careful  inquiry,  that  he  attained 
to  every  successive  conviction  ;  but  he  did  attain  to  many 
points  which  he  looked  upon  as  frm  land,  and  not  bog  or 
mirage.  The  number  of  these  was,  I  think,  every  year 


274  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

increasing  ;  the  fog  was  rolling  up  from  the  moral  land- 
scape, and  point  after  point  emerging,  all  glittering  in  the 
sunshine  of  truth.  How  much  did  I  hope  from  the  onward 
progress  of  such  a  mind,  when  years  should  have  ripened 
and  fully  elaborated  his  views.  Though  they  might  have 
coincided  in  exact  form  and  shade  with  those  of  no  classified 
religious  body,  yet  in  their  strong,  hearty  individualism,  they 
would  have  formed  no  mean  addition  to  the  great  stock 
of  moral  and  religious  presentations  which  this  age  is  col- 
lecting. 

"  The  points  on  which  I  think  Mr.  Perkins  had  attained  to 
settled  conviction  were,  the  entire  ruin  of  the  human  race 
morally  ;  the  entire  dependence  of  man  on  Divine  assistance 
for  any  upward  progress  ;  the  necessity  of  a  thorough  and 
radical  regeneration  of  every  individual  heart,  '  through  the 
supernatural  influences  of  the  Spirit  of  God.'  These  last 
words  are  quoted  from  one  of  his  sermons,  and  are  a  form 
of  expression  that  I  have  heard  him  use  frequently.  He 
also  believed  in  Christ  as  so  united  to  the  Divine  nature  as 
to  be  truly  and  properly  God  manifest  in  the  flesh,  —  a 
proper  object  of  the  highest  religious  homage  and  worship  ; 
and  I  remember  a  very  beautiful  and  eloquent  description 
which  he  gave  of  the  influence  of  living  faith  in  Christ  in 
the  transformation  of  human  character.  He  believed  also 
in  the  fact  of  an  Atonement  by  the  death  of  Christ,  though 
he  stated  that  he  could  not  as  yet  see  truth  in  any  of  the 
philosophical  theories  by  which  the  doctrine  was  supported. 

"  With  respect  to  many  phases  of  religious  opinion,  he 
was  undoubtedly,  as  he  always  represented  himself,  in  a 
transition  state.  And  so  indeed  it  has  proved  to  him,  as, 
passed  at  once  beyond  the  shadows  of  earth,  he  has  found 
the  light  for  which  his  soul  yearned,  in  heaven. 

"  Amid  all  the  affliction  of  his  sudden  and  most  mourn- 
ful death,  I  have  never  been  without  a  mingling  of  solemn 
joy  when  I  think  of  him  individually.  The  divine  longing 


MANHOOD.  275 

was  in  him  so  strong,  —  the  yearning,  the  hungering  and 
thirsting,  after  light  and  purity  so  ardent,  that  I  rejoice  at  his 
having  at  last  found  it.  His  was  one  of  those  souls  whom  a 
German  writer  describes  as  possessed  by  a  '  home-sickness' 
which  makes  them  perpetually  long  for  a  higher  sphere,  and 
forbids  them  any  settled  repose  on  the  bosom  of  created 
things.  Of  all  such  when  they  depart  may  it  truly  be  said, 
'  If  ye  loved  me  ye  would  rejoice,  because  I  go  unto  my 
Father.'  " 

In  a  letter  written  in  1846,  Mr.  Perkins  thus  explained 
his  own  position  :  — 

"  As  to  my  theology,  it  is  of  a  curious  kind  just  now,  if  I 
may  judge  by  the  fact,  that  the  Catholics  think  me  on  the 
point  of  joining  their  Holy  Communion,  while  the  Sweden- 
borgians  regard  me  as  about  to  enter  their  New  Church,  and 
some  of  Dr.  Beecher's  people  look  on  me  as  sufficiently 
Orthodox  to  say  that,  when  I  preach  again,  they  shall  enlist 
under  my  banner.  The  amount  of  the  matter  is,  that  my 
Biblical  studies,  where  alone  I  study  theology,  while  they 
have  made  me  come  to  look  on  Jesus  as  having  a  far  more 
intimate  relationship  with  his  Father  than  man  has,  or  can 
have,  have  not  enabled  me  to  form  any  idea  of  that  relation- 
ship. He  is  to  me  God  Manifest,  an  object  of  worship,  a 
living  reality,  with  whom  I  may  commune,  and  through 
communion  grow  more  and  more  to  resemble.  This  com- 
munion is  by  meditation,  prayer,  the  cultivation  of  all  right 
thoughts  and  feelings,  and  especially  by  acts  which  are  the 
last  embodiments  of  thoughts  and  feelings.  All  the  mooted 
questions  in  divinity  I  throw  aside.  A  LIFE  that  shall  make 
each  man  more  like  Jesus,  by  means  of  a  practical  faith  in 
him,  and  which  will  also  most  aid  the  masses,  —  this  I 
would  preach  and  aim  at,  in  general  and  detail,  and  ask  no 
one  about  Trinity,  Atonement,  Baptism,  &c.,  &c.  UNION 


276  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

AMONG  CHRISTIANS  is  all-essential.  This  cannot  rest  on 
intellectual  agreement  ;  and  a  church,  in  my  view,  must  base 
itself  on  agreement  of  feelings  and  principles  ;  that  is,  it 
must  have  faith  in  Jesus,  not  faith  in  a  theological  creed, 
whether  that  of  the  Council  of  Nice,  the  Westminster  As- 
sembly, or  any  other  Not-Jesus.  And  yet  I  want  a  creed 
and  a  theology." 

With  Mr.  Perkins's  distaste  for  the  ministerial  profes- 
sion, his  hatred  of  isms  as  really  schisms,  his  aspiration 
for  a  unitary  faith,  which  shall  comprehend,  transmute, 
and  harmonize  all  partial  creeds,  his  deepening  conscious- 
ness of  communion  with  Christ,  and  his  longing  for  a  more 
living  and  effective  union  among;  Christians,  it  was  but 

O  ^J  J 

consistent  and  right  that  he  should  either  resign  his  tem- 
porary post  in  the  Unitarian  Society,  or  seek  to  raise 
them  to  the  level  of  his  own  large  aims.  Only  the  urgent 
persuasions  of  leading  friends  in  the  congregation,  and 
the  freedom  which  was  gladly  granted  to  him  to  utter  his 
most  extreme  views,  both  speculative  and  practical,  in- 
duced him  to  retain  his  oflice  so  long,  which  —  except- 
ing the  few  months  of  Mr.  Fenner's  ministry,  and  some 
intervals  of  sickness  and  absence  —  he  held  until  his 
death.  The  following  letter  to  the  society,  in  February, 
1 847,  will  best  show  how  truthful  and  friendly  were  the 
relations  between  him  and  his  people. 

"  February  I3lh,  1847.  To  THE  TRUSTEES  AND  MEM- 
BERS OF  THE  FIRST  CONGREGATIONAL  SOCIETY.  —  I  cannot, 
my  friends,  easily  find  words  to  express  to  you  my  gratitude 
for  the  confidence  you  have  shown  in  me  by  your  late  invi- 
tation to  become  again  your  pastor.  I  only  regret  that  my 
own  conscience  and  consciousness  do  not  assure  mo  that  I 
am  worthy  of  such  confidence. 


MANHOOD.  277 

"  In  relation  to  the  proposal  made  me  I  would  say,  — 
"  First,  That  I  hold  myself  so  far  bound  by  engagements 
already  entered  into,  as  to  make  it  impossible  for  me  at 
present  to  do  more  than  preach  once  a  Sunday,  my  school 
and  writings  requiring  nearly  every  hour  from  Monday 
morning  to  Saturday  evening.  This  state  of  things  will 
continue  until  July  next ;  meanwhile,  if  you  desire  it,  I  will 
preach  on  Sunday  mornings. 

"  Second,  When  my  present  engagements  close,  I  should 
feel  unwilling  to  enter  upon  any  agreement  to  act  as  a  pastor, 
unless  with  a  full  understanding  upon  two  points.  These 
are,  — 

I.  That  I  am  not  to  be  expected  to  make   regular,  formal, 
parochial  calls.     In  cases  of  sickness  and  distress  I  should,  I 
trust,  act  as  a  Christian  friend,  but  the  usual  course  of  parish 
visiting  I  cannot  honestly  undertake.     My  wish  would  be  to 
visit  among  the  poor  and  ignorant,  the  erring  and  criminal. 

II.  I  should  wish  it  to  be  fully  understood,  that  I  become 
the  head  of  your  society   again  (should  I  do   so)  with  the 
hope  and  purpose  of  leading  you  to  leave  the  dogmatic,  sec- 
tarian ground  of  Anti-Trinitarianism,  and  to  assume  that  of 
a  more  practical    Christianity,  having  as   its   basis   these 
points :  — 

"  1st.  Faith  in  the  perfect  trustworthiness  of  the  Gos- 
pels,—  in  their  essential  inspiration. 

"  2d.  Faith  in  Jesus,  as  God  revealed  through  man. 

"  3d.  Faith  in  God's  constant  presence  and  ceaseless  in- 
tercourse with  human  souls. 

"  4th.  Faith  in  regeneration  and  the  forgiveness  of  sins. 

"  5th.  Faith  in  a  future  life  of  retribution. 

"  6th.  Faith  in  the  power  of  Christianity  to  cure  the  evils 
of  the  world. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  believe  with  me  on  these  points  ;  I 
do  not  ask  you  to  agree  to  give  up  sectarian  Unitarianism  ; 
I  only  ask  that  it  shall  be  fully  understood  that  I  shall  urge 

VOL.  i.  24 


278  LIFK    OF   JAMES    H.    PEKKINS. 

you  to  do  so,  and  shall  preach  what.  arc  to  my  mind  the  truths 
of  theology  which  tend  to  a  practical  result,  and  net  Ami- 
Trinitarianism.  The  practical  1'orm  which  I  should  trust 
the  action  of  your  society  will  take,  it  will  be  my  purpose 
to  sketch  in  the  discourse  which  will  precede  the  reading 
of  this  letter. 

"  ft  has  pleased  God  to  relieve  me  in  a  great  measure 
from  the  affection  which  last  year  disabled  me  from  preach- 
ing. With  renewed  health  I  have  meant  in  some  form  to 
resume  my  Ministry  at  Large  ;  if  I  can  do  it,  and  at  the 
same  time  supply  your  wants,  I  shall  be  most  grateful  for 
the  opportunity.  Hut,  while  1  thank  you  from  my  heart  for 
your  invitation,  I  cannot  honestly  accept  it  unless  with  the 
understanding  I  have  mentioned.  If  you  wish,  I  will  preach 
once  a  Sunday  until  July,  if  my  health  will  allow  ;  and 
then  your  invitation  may  be  renewed,  if  you  think  my  pro- 
posals reasonable. 

"  With  gratitude  and  affection,  your  friend, 

"J.  II.  PERKINS." 

Thus  continued  their  relations,  until,  in  consistency 
with  the  views  expressed  in  this  letter,  and  with  the 
conviction  that  the  time  had  come  for  inviting  his  friends 
to  form  a  UNI  ox  upon  the  ground  of  Practical  Chris- 
tian Life,  Mr.  Perkins  preached,  on  October  8,  1848, 
the  following  discourse. 

" '  Believe  me,  the  hour  comcth  when  ye  shall  neither  in 
this  mountain,  nor  yet  at  Jerusalem,  worship  the  Father. 

But  the  hour  cometh,  and  now  is,  when  the  true 

worshippers  shall  worship  the  Father  in  spirit  and  in  truth.' 
John  iv.  21,  23. 

"  When  invited  by  you,  my  friends,  nearly  two  years 
since,  to  take  this  desk  again,  1  did  so  with  the  express 
agreement  that  I  should  be  at  liberty  to  urge  upon  you, 


MANHOOD.  279 

without  offence,  the  abandonment  of  Unitarianism  as  a 
ground  of  union  as  the  basis  of  your  society.  From  time 
to  time  I  have  presented  to  you  the  views  which  convince 
my  own  mind  that  such  a  step  is  desirable.  To-day  I  ask 
you  to  take  the  step  ;  to  say  to  all  about  you  who  are  inter- 
ested, that  you  no  longer  wish  to  remain  a  society  because 
you  are  opposed  to  the  Trinity,  or  any  of  its  dependent  doc- 
trines ;  that  you  abandon  the  ground  upon  which  this  con- 
gregation was  originally  gathered  ;  that  you  are  convinced 
there  is  a  broader,  better  ground  of  union,  —  one  that  may 
support  a  true  catholic  church,  —  and  that  this  you  would 
seek  for.  That  this  you  would  seek  for,  I  say,  —  not  that  you 
have  found  it.  The  problem  which  has  so  long  perplexed 
the  largest  minds  and  noblest  hearts  in  the  Church  of  Christ, 
we  cannot  claim  to  have  solved  :  we  merely  seek  a  solu- 
tion ;  and,  as  a  first  step,  leave  a  position  which  \ve  believe 
prevents  our  progress  toward  that  end. 

"  Asking  you  to  take  this  step,  —  to  make  this  declara- 
tion to  the  world,  —  the  little  world  that  is  concerned  in  our 
doings,  —  I  propose  to  present  to-day  in  one  view  the  rea- 
sons in  favor  of  such  a  course,  which  appear  to  me  of  most 
weight. 

"  And,  in  the  first  place,  I  ask  you  to  leave  your  present 
basis  of  union,  which  is  opposition  to  the  Trinity,  because 
that  basis  tends  to  make  you  sectarian,  and  sectarianism  is 
a  form  of  Antichrist.  In  the  present  position  of  human  cul- 
ture and  Christian  development,  divisions  or  sects  in  the 
Church  may  be  inevitable  ;  but  sects  may  exist  without  sec- 
tarianism. Sectarianism  is  that  spirit  of  division,  disunion, 
antagonism,  which  would  PERPETUATE  differences,  instead 
of  doing  them  away,  —  which  seeks  for  points  of  opposition 
in  place  of  points  of  union,  —  which  delights  in  controversy, 
contest,  and  victory,  —  which  cannot  conceive  that  the  truth 
is  so  large,  and  man  so  small,  that  countless  differences 
must  of  course  arise  from  man's  partial  views  of  that  truth, 


280  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

and  that  those  who  seem  to  us  opposed  to  the  Gospel  may 
indeed  but  be  viewing  it  from  a  point  whereon  we  never 
stood.  To  the  sectarian,  the  man  that  does  not  think  with 
him,  for  or  against  the  dogmas  in  question,  is  of  necessity 
wrong,  and  to  be  combated.  He  does  not  dream  that  both 
he  and  his  opponent  may  be  in  part  wrong,  in  part  right, 
and  that  they  should  study,  know,  aid  one  another,  instead  of 
trying  merely  to  convince  or  overcome  one  another. 

"  But  sects  may  exist  without  this  spirit.  Those  of  vari- 
ous views,  in  Christian  humility  and  love,  may  seek  for  the 
truth  in  the  views  of  their  fellows,  and  so  grow  daily  wider. 
We  may  remain  Congregationalists,  Episcopalians,  Presby- 
terians, and  yet  not  be  antagonists,  but  friends,  co-laborers, 
members  of  the  body  of  Christ.  Sects  may  be  but  the  vari- 
ous limbs  in  that  body,  moving  in  harmony  and  health  ;  but 
sectarianism  is  a  disease,  which  makes  the  limb  it  possesses 
at  discord  with  all  others,  adverse  to  them,  worse  than 
useless. 

"  Need  I  spend  time  in  proving  that  such  a  spirit  is  Anti- 
christ ?  It  is  the  spirit  of  selfishness,  pride,  war,  hatred, 
and  cruelty;  it  is  the  opposite  of  that  love,  humility,  gen- 
tleness, kindness,  long-suffering,  which  Jesus  has  revealed 
to  us  as  the  spirit  of  God  and  his  Anointed.  From  secta- 
rianism have  come  persecutions,  burnings,  bloodshed,  in 
times  past,  —  in  our  day,  hard  words,  accusations,  bitter- 
ness, hatred,  malice.  Sectarianism  has  weakened  the  power 
of  the  Church  to  do  good,  to  put  down  evil,  to  advance  the 
cause  of  the  Saviour  ;  it  has  made  men  look  on  Christendom 
as  the  battle-field  of  contending  parties,  —  not  as  the  great 
labor-field  of  united  brothers. 

"  Need  I  stop  long  to  satisfy  you  that  your  union  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  Trinity  makes  you  sectarian  ?  Does  not  that 
union,  by  an  act  of  your  own,  divide  you  from  the  great 
body  of  the  disciples  of  Jesus  ?  Does  it  not  place  you  in 
antagonism  to  them  ?  Does  it  not  breed  in  you  and  them 


MANHOOD.  281 

more  or  less  of  coldness,  unkindness,  and  enmity  ?  And  is 
not  this  in  a  great  measure  your  own  doing,  —  the  result  of 
the  platform  you  adopt  ?  They  do  not  combine  against  the 
Unity  of  God  ;  you  bind  yourselves  together  against  the 
Trinity.  They  do  not  excommunicate  you  so  much  as  you 
cut  yourselves  off  voluntarily.  Let  a  Congregational  society 
be  gathered  in  this  city,  having  no  creed,  no  platform  in- 
volving Trinity  or  Anti-Trinity,  —  but  professing  merely  to 
worship  God  together,  and  to  work  together  for  the  exten- 
sion of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  —  would  it  be  cut  off  from 
other  churches  ?  Would  they  refuse  fellowship  with  it 
unless  it  took  some  sectarian  name  and  symbol  ?  I  do  not 
think  so  poorly  of  their  liberality  and  Christian  spirit  as  to 
suppose  for  one  moment  that  they  would.  They  stand  aloof 
from  us,  because,  as  a  Unitarian  society,  we  declare  war,  as 
it  must  seem  to  them,  against  the  very  foundation  of  Chris- 
tianity ;  we  are  the  aggressors,  we  are  the  sectarians  ;  the 
peace  of  the  Church  is -disturbed  by  us.  Nor  can  we  hon- 
estly say  that  we  have  no  creed,  no  platform.  England  has 
a  constitution,  though  it  is  unwritten  ;  and  we  have  a  con- 
fession of  faith,  though  it  exists  in  no  book  or  manuscript. 
The  purpose  for  which  this  church  was  gathered  was  known 
to  all  men  ;  the  character  of  the  discourses  delivered  in  its 
early  years  was  known  to  all.  Professed  Unitarians  alone 
have  been  called  to  preach  here  ;  and  during  nearly  twenty 
years  this  society  has  been,  distinctively,  Anti-Trinitarian. 

"  But  do  not,  my  friends,  suppose  that  I  mean  by  my 
language  to  accuse  the  founders  of  this  society  of  aggression 
and  sectarianism,  of  selfishness,  pride,  and  malice.  My 
proposition  is  not  that  sectarianism  founded  this  church,  but 
that  its  continued  existence  upon  the  basis  originally  as- 
sumed tends  to  produce  sectarianism. 

"  And  this  leads  me  to  the  second  reason  which  I  would 
urge  in  favor  of  the  step  I  propose.  It  is  this, —  that  the 
Anti-Trinitarian  basis  at  first  adopted  by  this  society,  ho\v- 
24* 


282  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

ever  suitable  to  the  wants  of  that  day,  is  not  adapted  to  the 
wants  of  ours  :  in  other  words,  that  our  platform,  even  if  it 
did  not  involve  the  evils  of  sectarianism,  is  too  narrow  for 
the  present  moment. 

"  The  present  time  demands,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  platform 
which  leaves  minds  free  in  relation  to  theology,  but  unites 
them  in  reference  to  worship,  self-improvement,  and  labor 
for  those  around  them  who  need  aid,  —  physical,  intellect- 
ual, and  spiritual.  Or,  to  present  it  otherwise,  —  if  we 
would  conform  ourselves  to  this  year  1848,  we  shall  aban- 
don opposition  to  the  Trinity  and  Atonement  as  a  ground  of 
union,  and  shall  agree  to  be  a  Congregational  society,  be- 
cause we  can  pleasantly  and  profitably  worship  together ; 
listen  together  to  an  appointed  preacher,  no  matter  what  his 
theology ;  consult  and  debate  together ;  and  work  together 
to  do  away  poverty,  ignorance,  vice,  and  infidelity. 

"  I  am  not,  as  you  well  know,  a  disbeliever  in  the  value 
of  theology.  It  is  not  a  mean,  or  mysterious,  or  unpracti- 
cal system  of  truths,  as  I  view  it.  Nothing,  I  believe,  is  so 
universally  and  constantly  practical,  sensible,  and  noble,  as 
theology.  It  not  only  ought  to  govern,  but  does  govern, 
the  merchant  in  Main  Street,  the  lawyer  at  the  bar,  the  me- 
chanic in  his  shop,  the  farmer  at  his  plough.  When  you 
leave  this  city  for  New  York  or  New  Orleans,  your  life  will 
depend  very  much  upon  the  theology  of  the  engineer  who 
holds  the  safety-valve  of  the  steamboat,  or  modulates  the 
speed  of  the  locomotive.  No  matter  what  his  skill,  his 
energy,  his  knowledge  :  the  man's  conduct  will  be  finally 
determined  by  what  he  really  bcliei-cs  in  reference  to  Cod, 
and  the  relations  of  God  to  man  ;  in  other  words,  by  Ms 
theology. 

"  It  is  not,  then,  because  I  despise  or  disregard  this  sci- 
ence,—  if  we  may  fitly  degrade  it  by  such  a  term,  —  that  I 
say  a  platform  of  to-day  must  leave  minds  free  upon  it. 
Neither  is  it  because  I  would  tolerate  all  views  and  bear  with 


MANHOOD.  283 

all  errors.  I  would  bear  with  no  error ;  I  would  tolerate  no 
false  view;  I  would  discard  as  an  insult  the  name  of  liber- 
ality, when  it  implies,  as  it  too  often  does,  the  quiet  suffer- 
ance of  lies.  Who  was  ever  more  intolerant  than  Jesus  of 
the  Pharisees  ? 

"  No,  my  friends,  it  is  not  either  because  I  think  theology 
worthless,  or  am  ready  to  tolerate  any  falsehoods  therein, 
that  I  say  our  platform  should  leave  all  minds  free.  We 
should  leave  them  free,  because,  in  relation  to  this,  the 
most  practical,  important,  and  vital  of  subjects,  we  really 
know  so  little,  —  see  so  partially,  —  can  judge  so  imper- 
fectly, except  for  ourselves.  To  the  same  soul  even  the 
Gospel  changes  from  month  to  month,  and  year  to  year,  as 
the  mountain  peak  changes  when  we  draw  near  to  it :  to 
various  souls  the  Gospel  is  as  different  in  hue,  form,  and 
bearing,  as  that  same  peak  is  to  those  who  approach  from 
opposing  sides.  We  at  best  see  but  portions  of  the  one 
great  truth  as  it  was  in  Jesus  ;  and  if  we  see  part,  so  do  our 
opponents.  Calvinists  and  Arminians,  Catholics  and  Protes- 
tants, Trinitarians  and  Unitarians,  are  but  so  many  bands, 
looking  up  from  the  darkness  and  narrowness  of  their  val- 
leys to  the  snowy  whiteness,  the  never-shadowed  radiance, 
of  that  peak  above  them  all. 

"  It  is,  then,  because  theological  truth  deserves  all  rever- 
ence, that  it  becomes  us  to  revere  its  presence  in  every 
human  soul,  and,  recognizing  our  own  ignorance  and  inca- 
pacity, to  shrink  from  a  platform  which  we  are  sure  will 
contain  but  a  part  of  Christian  truth,  and  which  will  serve 
only  to  sever  us  from  others  as  honest,  and  liberal,  and  de- 
voted as  we  can  be  ourselves.  Such  a  platform  is  the  un- 
written creed  of  Unitarianism  ;  and  therefore  I  believe  it  is 
for  our  day  too  narrow. 

"  When  modern  Unitarianism  first  found  expression  in 
our  land,  it  was  the  earnest  protest  of  devout  hearts  against 
that  real  or  imagined  form  of  faith  which  of  the  Triune 


284  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PKKKINS. 

God  had  made  three  Gods, —  which  to  the  fallen  man 
denied  the  mere  power  of  receiving  God's  spirit,  —  which 
sunk  the  great  Reconciler  of  God  and  man  in  the  victim  of 
Divine  wrath,  — which  petrified  foreordi nation  into  a  pagan 
fate,  and  election  into  the  capricious  mercy  of  a  tyrant. 
For  one,  I  thank  God  that  such  a  protest  was  made,  —  even 
though  no  human  being  held  the  faith  denounced.  No  the- 
ory ever  yet  darkened  the  world  more  black  and  deadly 
than  exaggerated  Calvinism.  I  have  said  that  I  do  not  be- 
lieve in  that  liberality  which  would  tolerate  a  lie  ;  and  if 
man  ever  uttered  one  regarding  his  Creator, —  if  he  ever 
was  false  to  the  whole  spirit  and  purpose  of  Christ, —  if  he 
ever  in  words  denied  his  master  and  reviled  his  God,  —  it  was 
when  he  fashioned  that  system  of  theology  against  which 
Unitarianism  declared  deadly  war.  I  have  referred  to  the 
possibility  that  this  system  was  never  really  entertained  :  it 
may  not  have  been  ;  but,  asking  you,  as  1  do,  to  leave  the 
basis  of  Unitarianism,  I  feel  bound  to  say  that,  in  my  belief, 
the  words  of  Charming,  Buckminster,  and  Ware,  in  their 
day,  were  as  truly  needed  as  any  words  ever  spoken  by 
man.  And  Heaven  gave  the  words  needed,  through  various 
channels,  in  various  lands.  But  their  day  is  long  since 
passed  ;  the  great  truths  taught  by  them,  in  part  through 
their  agency,  but  mainly  independent  of  them,  are  now  re- 
ceived on  all  sides;  the  spirit  they  lived  in  has  become,  to 
a  greater  or  less  degree,  the  spirit  of  all  sects.  Thomas 
Arnold  of  England,  Ronge  in  Germany,  Bacon  and  Tay- 
lor of  New  Haven,  Horace  Bushncll  of  Hartford,  Henry 
Bcecher  of  Brooklyn,  and  several  Evangelical  ministers  of 
our  own  city,  besides  hundreds  of  whom  I  krfow  nothing, 
are  clearly  in  the  truth  which  made  Charming  and  his  fel- 
low-laborers  so  strong.  That  truth  was  not  their  denial  of 
the  Trinity  ;  it  was  their  affirmation  to  man's  conscience  and 
heart,  rather  than  to  bis  intellect  rm'd  fears,  of  God's  justice, 
of  Christ's  reconciling  power,  of  the  indwelling  of  the  Holy 


MANHOOD.  285 

Spirit  in  the  heart  of  man,  and,  more  than  all,  of  the  rightful 
freedom  of  man  from  priesthood,  creeds,  and  every  form 
of  human  imposition  and  human  tyranny. 

"  While,  therefore,  I  agree  that  Unitarianism  was  some 
years  since  necessary,  and  arose  naturally  according  to  the 
laws  of  reaction  ;  and  while  I  believe  that  now  also  there 
are  minds  which  can  approach  Christianity  only  on  that  side, 
—  can  learn  to  see  the  Divinity  of  Christ  only  by  first  dwell- 
ing on  his  Humanity,  —  I  cannot  but  regard  it  as  a  needless 
and  narrow  basis  for  us  at  present  to  unite  upon. 

"  But,  in  addition  to  its  tendency  to  make  us  sectarian, 
and  its  narrowness  as  a  ground  of  union,  there  is  a  third 
reason  why  I  hope  to  see  it  abandoned  by  you.  It  is  this. 

"  Christian  societies  are  needed,  in  our  day  and  land, 
which  shall  make  it  a  chief  object  to  influence  the  commu- 
nity around  them  ;  and,  beginning  with  themselves,  to  seek, 
more  distinctly  than  is  usual  with  Protestant  churches,  to 
reform  social  evils.  Such  societies  cannot  be  based,  as  we 
now  are,  upon  the  affirmation  or  denial  of  theological  dog- 
mas. 

"  Hitherto  Protestant  Christianity  has  looked  almost  exclu- 
sively to  the  work  of  individual  salvation.  It  has  neglected 
social  salvation  as  a  thing  belonging  to  Caesar,  not  to  God. 
But  human  government  with  us  in  America  will  do  but  little 
for  that  salvation  ;  and  if  the  Christians  of  our  land  do  not 
in  union  take  up  the  work,  the  infidels  will ;  and  every  year 
our  democracy  will  be  more  and  more  pagan,  farther  and 
farther  from  that  of  the  Pilgrims  :  the  heathen  idea  of  self- 
government  will  utterly  expel  the  Christian  conception  of 
submission  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  the  source  of  our  so- 
cial security  will  be  lost. 

"  In  our  day,  moreover,  men  are  fast  coming  to  appreciate 
the  scientific  truth  and  social  bearing  of  a  principle,  which 
Jesus,  in  its  spiritual  and  moral  relations,  constantly  pre- 
sented,—  the  principle  of  Brotherhood,  —  of  cooperation, 


286  LIFH  OF  JAMES  H. 

as  distinguished  from  inimical  competition,  such  as  now  ex- 
ists  in  the  world  of  business  ;  the  principle  of  associative 
notion,  as  distinguished  from  naked  individualism.  Society 
everywhere  is  hecomin-j;  conscious  that  it  does  not,  as  now 
orirani/ed,  fulfil  the  purposes  for  which  it  was  ordained  ;  that 
it  docs  not  secure  to  its  members  the  blessings  to  which  all, 
as  (tod's  children,  are  entitled.  In  England,  France,  Ger- 
many,  Italy,  and  our  own  country,  the  masses,  enlight- 
ened anil  unenlightened,  are  asking,  '  What  shall  we  do  to 
bo  social Iv  saved  r  '  Sinning  society,  like  the  individual 
sinner,  is  anxious  ;  and  in  both  it  is  the  first  step  towards 
salvation.  What  is  the  next  ?  To  the  individual  is  pre- 
sented, as  an  object  of  love,  faith,  trust,  confidence,  Jesus  the 
Anointed,  God  embodied  in  man  ;  and  through  faith  in  him 
come  the  hope,  the  deepening  penitence,  and  that  essential 
and  jrrowin"  change  of  views,  wishes,  purposes,  and  princi- 
ples, which  show  the  entrance  of  the  Spirit  of  God,  awaken- 
ing, condemning,  forgiving,  and  regenerating.  And  some- 
what so,  I  believe,  it  must  be  with  society.  Men  need  to 
have  faith  in  a  social  embodiment  of  the  spirit  which  was  in 
Jesus.  As  Jesus  is  the  mediator  between  God  and  man.  so 
we  need  mediators  between  Jesus  and  the  world  ;  associa- 
tions, or  forms  of  society,  that  shall  apply  the  Divine  spirit 
to  every  relation  of  life,  and  make  possible  for  us  a  living 
faith  in  such  an  application.  But  such  forms  of  society  can- 
not be  expected  to  spring  at  once  from  the  bosom  of  existing 
society.  We  have  all  been  too  deeply  educated  into  false 
relations,  to  be  able  instantly  to  see  and  seize  the  true  ones. 
Moreover,  we  have  no  mode  of  selecting  from  those  about 
us  the  best  men  and  women  to  form  the  associations  which 
shall  seek  to  embody  the  spirit  of  Christ,  and  yet  a  most 
wise  selection  is  plainly  necessary.  In  the  first  place,  then, 
there  is  required  some  mode  by  which,  in  our  existing  soci- 
ety, we  may  be  educated  from  its  prejudices  and  falsehoods 
into  the  truth  as  it  was  in  Jesus,  —  into  the  application  of  his 


MANHOOD.  287 

life  and  teachings  to  the  problems  which  now  cloud  our 
path, — slavery,  hired  labor,  pauperism,  arid  crime  ;  and  sec- 
ondly, a  plan  by  which  the  wisest  and  best  may  be  gathered 
in  due  time  to  form  the  social  bodies  through  which  may  be 
shown  an  approach  to  the  Divine  order  of  society,  and  thus 
a  faith  be  generated  in  the  possibility  of  doing  away  present 
evils,  and,  by  the  power  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  producing  social 
salvation.  The  nearest  question  for  us  to  answer,  then,  is 
this,  —  How  may  we,  in  the  midst  of  existing  society,  fit  our- 
selves for  a  higher  system  of  social  relations,  and  be  enabled 
to  choose  from  among  us  the  wisest  and  best  to  reduce  that 
system  to  practice  ?  And  to  this,  for  my  own  part,  I  an- 
swer, —  By  Christian  societies,  which,  while  they  labor  for 
the  salvation  of  the  individual,  shall  recognize  the  evils  that 
now  beset  every  community,  and  which  shall  make  it  a  defi- 
nite purpose  to  examine  them,  inquire  for  remedies,  and  as 
far  as  possible  carry  those  remedies  out  into  life.  By  doing 
this,  some  must  be  trained  to  at  least  a  partial  application  of 
cooperative  principles,  and  must  become  fitted  to  judge  who 
among  their  colaborers  are  the  best  suited  to  a  more  com- 
plete and  exclusive  experiment.  If  in  our  city,  for  instance, 
twenty  societies  were  to  be  formed,  which  sought  practically 
a  remedy  to  social  evils,  ten  probably  would  be  led  to  some 
form  of  associative  action,  and  that  without  disturbing  those 
truly  vital  connections  which  now  bind  us  together.  By 
such  action,  all  must  be,  more  or  less,  educated  for  coopera- 
tion, and  some  men  and  women  must  be  made  known  who 
are  specially  fitted  by  physical  constitution,  temper,  worldly 
wisdom,  high  principle,  and  a  Christian  spirit,  to  join  a  soci- 
ety, a  community,  which  shall  aim  at  completeness  by  obe- 
dience to  the  will  of  God  in  every  particular. 

"  It  is  not  my  purpose,  however,  at  this  time  to  propose  to 
you  any  form  of  combination  with  reference  to  such  a  result 
as  that  I  have  been  speaking  of.  I  wish  at  present  to  submit 
to  you  only  one  proposition, —  the  abandonment  of  Unita- 


288  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

rianisin  as  your  ground  of  union  as  the  basis  of  this  relig- 
ious society.  If  that  step  be  taken,  you  can  continue  in- 
dependent of  all  theological  platforms,  and  all  theories  of 
social  reform  ;  or  you  can  adopt  as  your  basis  some  plan 
which  shall  contemplate  social  inquiries,  and  the  practical 
application  of  some  remedy  for  existing  troubles.  The 
present  point  for  you  to  decide-  is,  the  renunciation  of  a  the- 
ological platform  of  union,  and  nothing  more.  Should  you 
determine  to  do  this,  I  shall  hope  to  present  the  wisdom  of 
farther  action  in  detail,  and  therefore  oiler  no  plans  or  sug- 
gestions at  present. 

"  But,  it  may  be  asked,  what  will  the  position  of  this  so- 
ciety be,  if  it  renounce  its  original  basis,  its  Unitarian  theol- 
ogy ?  I  answer,  it  will  be  just  what  it  is  now,  except  in  its 
relations  to  other  Christian  societies  about  it,  and  to  the 
world  at  large.  By  renouncing  opposition  to  the  Trinity 
as  our  basis  of  union,  we  place  ourselves  on  ground  where 
others  ought  to,  and  I  believe  will,  recognize  us,  work  with 
us,  become  coopcrators  with  us.  We  are  still  the  First 
Congregational  Society,  or,  if  you  please  to  take  an  individ- 
ual name,  the  Church  of  the  Disciples,  of  the  Crucifixion,  of 
Humanity,  or  any  thing  else  you  like.  The  present  exer- 
cises would  continue,  and  others  would  be  added,  —  should  it 
meet  the  approval  of  the  society,  others  relating  especially 
to  social  evils  and  remedies.  Then  would  come  the  question 
of  agreeing  to  labor,  as  a  society,  to  advance  the  cause  of 
Christian  Association.  That  question,  however,  is  not  now 
before  you. 

"  Again,  the  inquiry  may  be  made,  whether  I  suppose  that 
individuals  are  to  change  their  faith,  —  to  abandon  Unitarian- 
ism,  if  now  held  by  them.  Of  course  not.  No  man  can  so 
change  his  convictions.  If  you  are  Arians,  Humanitarians, 
Sabellians,  Socinians,  such  you  will  remain,  until  convert- 
ed to  some  other  form  of  faith.  I  ask  individuals  not  to 
' 
abandon  their  own  convictions,  but  to  believe  that  others, 


MANHOOD.  289 

who  have  different  convictions,  are  also  through  these  pos- 
sessed of  truth  ;  not  to  give  up  Unitarianism  us  an  individual 
belief  for  some  other  belief,  but  to  give  it  up  as  a  bond  of 
union,  because,  by  uniting  in  opposition  to  the  Trinity,  they 
make  it  their  great  object  to  deny  the  existence  of  truth  in 
that  dogma  which  their  fellow-Christians  regard  as  the  cor- 
ner-stone of  their  theology,  rather  than  to  examine  whether 
there  may  not  be  truth  there  also. 

"  If,  then,  individuals  are  to  remain  what  they  are,  is  not 
the  proposed  abandonment  of  Unitarianism  by  the  society  a 
mere  change  of  name  ?  I  think  not.  If  I  supposed  it  to  be 
a  mere  change  of  name,  I  should  care  little  about  it ;  the 
name  'Unitarian'  is  as  good  as  any  other  name.  It  is  a 
real  change  in  your  relations  to  other  Christian  societies  and 
the  world,  which  I  ask  for.  It  is  an  end  of  the  antagonism 
existing  between  this  body  and  others  around  it,  which  I 
hope  for;  and  which,  as  far  as  you  can  secure  it,  will  be 
secured  by  your  withdrawal  from  an  avowed  position  of  an- 
tagonism. For  twenty  years  we  have  been  saying  to  the 
Trinitarian  world,  '  Your  dogmas  are  utter  errors,  and  we  are 
united  for  the  purpose  of  destroying  them  where  we  can.' 
I  ask  you  now,  instead  of  this,  to  say,  '  In  your  dogmas,  the 
basis  of  your  religious  life,  we  are  satisfied  there  are  truths, 
though  we  cannot  see  them  :  we  would  learn  them  ;  we 
would  strive  to  attain  your  point  of  view  ;  we  would  bring 
you,  if  possible,  to  ours  ;  for,  in  our  dogmas  and  denials  too, 
there  is  truth  :  we  would  cease  contest,  and  labor  truly  to 
aid  one  another.'  I  wish  you,  as  a  society,  to  change,  not 
your  name,  but  your  platform,  or  creed  ;  —  for  an  unwrit- 
ten one,  as  I  have  said,  you  have,  and,  whatever  you  do,  will 
have.  At  present,  it  stands  thus  :  —  '  We  believe  the  doctrine 
of  the  Trinity  and  its  dependent  doctrines  to  be  false  and 
unwarranted  by  Scripture,  and  we  regard  opposition  to  them 
as  a  paramount  duty.'  I  would  have  you  substitute  the  dec- 
laration, — '  We  believe  that  in  every  form  of  doctrine  which 

VOL.   i.  25 


290  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

has  been  the  basis  of  Christian  life,  there  lies  more  or  less 
of  Divine  truth  ;  and  \ve  regard  it  as  our  paramount  duly  to 
seek  for  that  truth  everywhere.  We  would  strive,  there- 
fore, not  to  hit  the  medium  of  opposing  dogmas,  nor  to 
tolerate  indifferently  views  of  every  kind,  but,  by  the  ex- 
amination of  dogmas,  and  the  earnest  endeavour  to  under- 
stand the  views  of  our  opponents,  to  attain,  with  the  help  of 
God,  to  a  more  comprehensive  knowledge  of  the  infinite 
truth  that  was  in  Christ.' 

';  That  the  change  proposed  is  not  merely  one  of  name 
may  be  illustrated,  perhaps,  in  this  way.  Four  societies 
might  be  formed,  all  composed  of  those  who  are  individually 
Unitarians.  One  of  these  societies  might  assume  the  name 
and  attitude  of  Anti-Trinitarians  ;  a  second,  sinking  the  ques- 
tion of  Trinity  and  Atonement,  might  base  itself  solely  on 
the  denial  of  Eternal  Punishment  ;  a  third,  disregarding  all 
these  points,  might  rest  simply  on  the  Baptist  ground  of  the 
immersion  of  adults;  while  the  fourth  should  assume  the 
position  for  which  I  now  contend,  and,  denying  neither 
Trinity,  Eternal  Punishment,  nor  Infant  Baptism,  should  as- 
sert as  its  foundation  a  common  worship  of  God,  a  common 
effort  for  the  removal  of  ignorance  and  vice,  a  common 
wish  to  learn  the  truth  which  is  the  life  of  every  division  of 
Christians,  and  a  devout  hope  that  a  time  may  come  when 
those  divisions  will  draw  together  again,  and  the  scattered 
limbs  of  the  body  of  Christ  once  more  be  united  in  health, 
and  power,  and  beauty.  Would  these  four  societies  differ 
only  in  name  ?  Would  not  their  relations  to  the  world,  their 
influence  on  the  world,  be  wholly  unlike  ? 

"  This,  then,  vny  friends,  is  the    point  to  which   I  would 
bring  you  :   I  would   have  you  declare  to  all  interested,  that, 
as  a  society,  you  abandon  the  Anti-Trinitarian  failh  as  your 
bond  of  union,  as  the  basis  of  your  religious  association  ;  — 
"  1.  Because  it  tends  to  make  us  sectarian  ; 
"  '2.  Because  it  is  too  narrow  for  our  day  ;  and 


MANHOOD.  291 

"  3.  Because  the  time  calls  for  societies  which  recognize 
the  need  of,  and  are  willing  to  labor  for,  a  social  as  well  as 
an  individual  regeneration,  trusting  in  the  power  of  faith  in 
Jesus  Christ,  and  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God." 

After  delivering  this  discourse,  Mr.  Perkins  offered 
his  resignation  as  minister  to  the  Unitarian  society, 
whose  views  in  relation  to  his  proposed  movement  may 
be  inferred  from  the  following  Resolutions  :  — 

"  At  a  full  meeting  of  the  members  of  the  First  Congre- 
gational Society  of  Cincinnati,  held  on  Sunday,  the  22d 
of  October,  1848,  the  following  resolutions  were  unanimously 
adopted  :  — 

"  Resolved,  That  this  society  cordially  approve  of  the 
ministry  of  James  H.  Perkins,  their  pastor;  that  they  have 
at  all  times  admired  the  liberality,  honesty,  and  independ- 
ence of  his  discourses,  and  the  truly  catholic  and  Christian 
spirit  which  has  uniformly  characterized  his  conduct  and 
teachings  ;  that,  as  fully  as  any  society  can  do  so,  they 
collectively  embrace  his  religious  doctrines  and  Christian 
faith. 

"  Therefore,  Resolved,  That  this  society  earnestly,  affec- 
tionately, and  unanimously  request  Mr.  Perkins  to  withdraw 
his  letter  of  resignation,  and  to  continue  his  relations  to  the 
society  as  their  minister  and  pastor." 

Mr.  Perkins  did  not  withdraw  his  resignation,  though 
he  accepted  the  invitation  to  continue  his  preaching  ; 
and  in  a  series  of  discourses  opened  still  further  his  plan 
of  Christian  Union.  The  organization  proposed  for  the 
new  religious  society  may  be  in  part  learned  from  the 
following  sketch,  prepared  by  a  friendly  hearer  for  a 
Cincinnati  paper. 

"  It  is  known  to  many  that  the  minister  of  the  First  Con- 


292  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    TERKI.NS. 

gregational  Cliurch  in  this  city  recently  proposed  to  his  soci- 
ety the  abandonment  of  Uniturianism  as  their  bond  of  union. 
At  the  same  time  he  signified  his  intention  of  presenting  a 
plan  for  the  organization  of  a  new  society,  on  a  wider  basis, 
and  with  higher  and  more  comprehensive  objects.  Accord- 
ingly, on  last  Sunday  morning,  his  connection  with  the  Uni- 
tarian society  having  ceased,  lie  addressed  a  very  large 
audience  of  interested  minds  upon  the  subject.  The  follow- 
ing is  a  brief  abstract  of  the  compact  and  well-reasoned 
discourse  thus  presented. 

"  The  speaker  began  by  announcing  that  he  should  aim 
at  giving  a  summary  of  what,  in  his  view,  should  constitute 
the  Objects,  the  Principles,  and  the  Details  of  such  a  relig- 
ious society  as  he  proposed. 

"  I.   The  Objects  were  as  follows  :  — 

*'  1.  The  public  worship  of  God,  not  as  a  prescribed  for- 
mula, but  as  a  duty  sanctioned  by  the  natural,  spontaneous, 
and  universal  instinct  of  man. 

"  2.  The  weekly  renewal  of  our  religious  sympathies  and 
affections,  as  a  guard  against  the  deadening  influence  of  the 
world. 

"3.  The  seeking  after  the  will  of  God,  in  an  enlarged 
and  scientific  spirit  of  inquiry,  drawing  truth  from  all 
sources,  and  learning  that  will,  not  from  the  Bible  alone, 
but  from  history,  from  nature,  from  Providence,  and  from 
our  own  souls  and  those  of  other  men. 

"  4.  The  application  of  that  will  to  life,  in  every  detail  of 
our  daily  business,  and  in  all  our  relations  to  God  and  to 
each  other. 

"  5.  The  alleviation,  by  both  physical  and  spiritual  means, 
of  poverty,  ignorance,  misery,  vice,  and  crime. 

"  G.  The  endeavour,  not  only  to  relieve,  but  to  discover, 
a  radical  cure,  which  shall  effectually  remove  these  evils, 
which  so  sorely  afflict  our  communities. 

"7.  The  carrying  out  vigorously  and  fully,  into  actual 
social  operation,  this  remedy,  when  found. 


MANHOOD.  293 

"  II.  The  Principles  which  the  speaker  deemed  a  proper 
basis  of  union  were  threefold. 

"  1.  The  acknowledgment,  by  the  adoption  of  a  distinct 
creed  or  symbol,  that  we  are  a  Christian  society,  recogniz- 
ing the  Divine  Messiahship  and  inspired  mission  of  Jesus 
Christ  as  the  Son  of  God.  Such  a  symbol  we  might  find  in 
the  Apostles'*  creed,  not  now  known  as  such,  but  in  the  words 
of  Peter,  sanctioned  by  Jesus,  '  Thou  art  the  Christ,  the  Son 
of  the  living  God.' 

"  2.  This  recognition  once  made,  our  stand  should  be 
upon  it  alone.  We  should  shut  out  none  by  requiring  all  to 
believe  every  thing  alike,  —  we  should  shut  up  free  inquiry 
by  no  detail  of  doctrines.  Holding  ourselves  as  earnest  seek- 
ers of  what  Jesus  taught,  we  should  be  ready  to  receive  truth 
from  every  quarter.  We  should  not  stand  in  opposition  to 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  or  the  Atonement ;  we  should 
not  stand  as  advocates  of  these  doctrines  ;  we  should  be  tol- 
erant of  the  truth  which  exists  in  every  sect  and  in  every 
creed.  We  should  invite  the  ministers  of  other  denomina- 
tions to  teach  us  ;  for  as  truth  is  seen  relatively,  not  abso- 
lutely, by  any  of  us,  we  are  bound  to  believe  that  others 
have  truths  which  we  have  not.  We  should  not  be  a  sect, 
for  our  union  excommunicates  no  Christian  ;  we  should  hold 
ourselves  in  antagonism  to  no  sect,  for  we  must  admit  that 
regeneration  and  a  Christian  life  exist  in  all.  We  should 
say  to  other  societies,  '  We  believe  you  are  Christians ;  if 
you  believe  that  we  are  heathens,  come  and  Christianize  us.' 

"  3.  The  acknowledgment  of  our  duty,  as  a  society  and 
as  individuals,  to  apply  Christianity  to  life,  in  a  thorough 
and  scientific  manner. 

"  III.  The  Details  briefly  glanced  at  by  the  speaker  were 
as  follows  :  — 

"  1.  The  adoption  of  a  creed,  already  spoken  of. 

"  2.  A  public   profession  of  faith  by  all  the  members  in 
the  principles  of  the  society,  and  an  adhesion  to  its  aims. 
25* 


29i  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  3.  The  calling  to  our  pulpit,  from  time  to  time,  minis- 
ters from  other  societies,  to  teach  us. 

"4.  The  holding  of  all  baptisms,  marriages,  and  funerals 
in  church. 

"  5.  The  binding  of  each  member  to  devote  a  certain 
portion  of  every  week  in  visiting  and  aiding  the  poor  and 
the  sick. 

"6.  The  devotion  of  one  fifth  of  all  funds  raised  by  the 
society  to  objects  of  charity,  one  fifth  to  the  support  of  good 
music,  and  three  fifths  to  the  support  of  a  minister,  provided 
that  the  latter  shall  not  exceed  §  1,000  per  year. 

"  7.  The  privilege  of  using  the  church  or  the  funds  of  the 
society  by  any  portion  of  its  members,  provided  such  use  is, 
in  the  judgment  of  the  minister,  in  harmony  with  the  objects 
of  the  society. 

"  I  have  given  a  condensed  abstract  of  the  religious  soci- 
ety as  proposed  by  Mr.  Perkins  on  last  Sunday.  It  will  be 
observed,  that  it  proposes  nothing  absolutely  new  in  princi- 
ple ;  and  the  proposer  took  special  occasion  to  repudiate  the 
intention  of  founding  a  new  sect  on  novel  principles.  It 
proposes  merely  a  new  method  of  action  in  carrying  out 
principles  already  known  and  acknowledged.  The  distinc- 
tion and  starting-point  of  the  whole  plan  is  this,  —  that  moral 
intentions,  sympathies,  and  habits  of  action  should  be  the 
true  bond  of  union  in  a  religious  society,  and  not  unanimity 
of  opinion,  or  agreement  as  to  the  theory  and  expression  of 
truth.  In  short,  that  right  acting,  and  not  right  thin/dug,  is 
the  true  bond  of  religious  union. 

"  This  is  to  abandon  the  whole  ground  of  sectarianism. 
The  proposed  society  is  not  only  not  a  new  sect,  but  it  is 
not.  a  sect  at  all.  It  proposes  a  UNION  of  minds,  hearts,  and 
hands  bent  on  thinking  right,  feeling  right,  and  doing  right, 
and  drawn  together  by  the  magnetic  power  of  the  inten- 
tion, and  not  by  agreement  in  the  actual  amount  of  progress 
made." 


MANHOOD. 


295 


Mr.  Perkins's  own  feeling  as  to  the  probable  success 
of  this  movement  may  be  learned  by  the  following  ex- 
tracts from  his  letters. 

"  The  blow  struck  by  me,  —  and  it  is  not  too  strong  an 
expression,  —  in  the  discourse  that  I  sent  to  you,  has  told 
here,  in  various  directions,  among  many  sects.  I  may 
never  see  the  result ;  but  children  now  living  will.  Hun- 
dreds, out  of  the  Unitarian  society,  have  already  expressed 
to  me  their  sympathy ;  and  in  the  course  of  the  coming 
winter,  if  I  have  life  and  strength,  I  can  undoubtedly  gather 
a  large  and  effective  body  upon  the  ground  of  faith  in  Jesus 
and  labor  for  man's  salvation,  personally  and  socially,  with- 
out respect  to  theological  opinions." 

"  Our  movement  here  is  yet  in  embryo.  I  am  in  no 
haste  ;  all  good  births  are  after  the  fulness  of  time.  Several 
from  Episcopal,  Presbyterian,  Methodist,  and  other  churches 
will  come  in,  I  think  ;  but  I  am  no  believer  in  the  revival  sys- 
tem, which  is  man's,  though  very  full  of  faith  in  that  revival 
which  is  from  God.  I  therefore  make  no  noise  or  stir." 

"  We  are  all  well.  I  am  busy  lately  in  a  more  than 
usual  degree  about  my  grounds.  I  have  some  six  acres, 
every  foot  of  which  is  capable  of  being  made  either  '  use- 
ful or  ornamental,'  —  a  classification  taught  me  fifteen 
years  ago  by  my  excellent,  well-dressed  friend  with  the 
lame  foot,  of  omnibus-riding  memory, — and  I  am  busy 
bringing  them  into  order  and  beauty.  Had  I  no  other  cares 
or  thoughts,  — were  I  fifty  miles  from  a  city,  town,  village, 
or  human  being,  —  I  should  be  perfectly  content  to  dig, 
hoe,  rake,  read,  eat,  and  sleep  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  But 
I  am,  alas!  at  this  moment  forced  to  act  as  leader,  nomi- 
nally, of  the  anti-sectarian  spirit  of  Cincinnati,  which  comes 
to  me  under  many  names  and  phases  ;  and  also  to  give 
several  hours  a  week,  the  number  increasing  geometrically 


296  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

with  the  cold,  to  the  presidential  duties  of  the  Relief  Union, 
or  Central  Charity  of  this  Queen  City. 

"  In  short,  were  I  an  active  bachelor,  I  should  be  busy 
fifteen  hours  a  day  in  attending  on  the  poor  and  comforting 
the  troubled  ;  or  in  studying  subjects  for  a  dozen  or  two 
lectures,  which  I  ought  to  deliver  this  winter  on  all  conceiv- 
able subjects ;  or  in  electioneering  for  a  new  society,  for  I 
have  resigned  my  pastorship  in  the  old  one,  on  account  of 
my  heresies  and  sins ;  or  in  writing  for  the  North  American 
Review,  Massachusetts  Quarterly,  &c.  ;  or  in  reading  new 
books,  reviews,  &c.,  &c.  As  it  is,  however,  I  nurse  the 
baby,  go  to  market,  see  the  poor  and  sick  as  I  can,  meditate 
a  sermon,  skip  through  a  novel,  skim  a  review,  dig  a  flower- 
bed, eat  a  dinner,  take  a  nap,  write  a  page  or  two,  discipline 
half  a  dozen  boys,  and  go  to  bed  !  " 

This  last  extract  carries  us  to  Mr.  Perkins's  HOME, 
and  thither  \ve  will  now  follow  him.  How  strong  his 
yearning  had  always  been  to  escape  from  the  whirl  and 
confinement  of  cities,  to  the  stillness,  pure  pleasures, 
quiet  work,  and  large  freedom  of  the  country,  has  ap- 
peared in  all  his  letters,  even  from  boyhood  ;  and  as  the 
charities  of  Cincinnati  became  organized,  and  his  failing 
health  and  a  regard  for  his  family's  welfare  absolutely 
demanded  a  change,  he  at  length  took  the  decided  step 
of  establishing  himself  out  of  town.  The  arrangement 
which  he  was  enabled  to  make  was  a  delightful  one. 
Among  the  Walnut  Hills,  a  few  miles  northeast  of  Cin- 
cinnati, his  brother-in-law  had  planted  a  nursery-gar- 
den, and  upon  his  grounds  Mr.  Perkins  built  a  little 
cottage.  Behind  it  were  the  unbroken  woods,  and  all 
around,  at  short  distances,  lay  pleasing  prospects.  He 
called  his  retreat  the  "  Owl's  Nest  "  ;  and  how  much 
parents  and  young  ones  enjoyed  their  covert  will  appear 
by  a  few  extracts  from  his  correspondence. 


MANHOOD.  297 

1845.  "  You  speak  in  one  of  your  letters  of  my  working 
too  hard.  I  regret  to  say,  I  am  sick  with  laziness  and  idle- 
ness ;  nor  have  I  been  able  to  discover  any  mode  of  cure 
except  to  move  three  miles  out  of  town,  and  try  to  fill  up 
my  time  by  walking  in  and  out,  and  gardening,  loafing, 
strolling,  and  lazing  generally." 

1S4G.  "  We  have  a  very  pretty  place,  with  a  beautiful 
forest  directly  back  of  us,  where  we  take  many  a  pleasant 
walk,  in  winter  no  less  than  summer.  We  have  had  much 
snow  this  season,  which  has  added  not  a  little  to  our  fun,  as 
well  as  to  the  beauty  of  the  woods.  Could  you  see  us  and 
the  four  boys  sliding  on  our  pond,  and  coasting  in  a  sled  of 
my  manufacture,  —  a  Champagne  basket  on  barrel-staves, 
—  you  would  fancy  us  all  children  together." 

1S17.  "  I  am  teaching,  lecturing,  writing  two  or  three 
books,  visiting  the  poor,  walking  about  in  immense  boots 
through  immense  mud,  lounging,  napping,  frolicking,  and 
reading  at  leisure  "  L'Unite  Universelle,"  by  Charles 
Fourier,  in  four  volumes.  So  goes  life;  —  the  old  hash 
spiced  with  crying  children,  and  sweetened  with  laughing 
ones." 

1S47.  "  We  enjoy  our  life  out  of  town  very  much  in- 
deed, in  winter  no  less  than  in  summer.  And  though  I 
have  to  '  tote '  out  much  of  our  marketing,  and  wade 
through  mire  and  water,  yet  I  am  glad  to  do  all  and  bear 
all  for  the  pleasure  I  have  in  the  exercise,  the  air  out  of 
town,  and  the  rambles  in  the  woods.  And  Sarah  and  the 
boys  enjoy  it  as  much  as  I." 

1S47.  "We  are  at  present  all  quite  well  in  body,  and 
only  slightly  troubled  in  mind  by  the  Fall  of  Adam,  Slavery, 
the  Mexican  War,  the  prevalence  of  injustice,  and  a  '  few 


298  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

more  of  the  same  sort.1  Our  talk  is  of  an  immediate  return 
to  New  England,  —  say  in  twenty  years  or  so,  —  to  live  on 
oysters,  lament  the  decay  of  Puritan  principles,  and  try  to 
begin  over  again.  Meanwhile  we  give  the  hoys  homoeo- 
pathic pellets  and  read  the  London  Examiner.  On  week- 
days, I  personally  am  rather  driven  during  daylight,  and, 
being  nowise  hat-like,  am  blind  when  daylight  is  over;  and 
Sarah  and  Charles  E.  being  of  similar  sightless  habits,  we 
spend  very  pleasant  chatty  evenings,  occasionally  varied  by 
four  uneasy-sleeping  boys,  who  have  been  eating  hickory- 
nuts  ichole,  or  other  similar  delicacies." 

The  tone  of  gentle  humor  that  runs  through  these 
extracts  was  very  characteristic  of  Mr.  Perkins.  It 
pervaded  speecli  and  manner  in  his  familiar  intercourse, 
and  spread  a  genial  fireside  glow  through  the  domestic 
circle.  \  et  it  needs  a  fine  touch  to  mark  the  quality  of 
this  humor,  so  delicate  and  half  latent  was  it  beneath  his 
grave  exterior.  It  was  not  the  hilarity  of  good  animal 
spirits,  nor  the  glittering  wit  of  a  keen  intellect  ;  hut 
though  both  sprightly  and  sharp-sighted,  his  playfulness 
came  of  the  heart.  From  principle,  he  had  learned  to 
let  off  nervous  excitement  through  sparkling  fireworks 
rather  than  fatal  explosions.  He  felt  so  acutely  the  re- 
buffs of  life,  that,  to  spare  himself  and  all  around  from 
incessant  worry,  he  preferred  to  look  at  existence  as  a 
fancy  fair,  where  he  was  best  fellow  who  wore  the 
drollest  mask  and  carried  on  the  joke  most  spiritedly. 
Hence,  when  his  peace  was  assaulted,  he  parried  the 
blow  with  a  merry  turn,  and  when  his  feelings  were  most 
wounded,  hid  the  scar  beneath  a  smile.  The  mechan- 
ism of  comedy,  qiinintness,  repartee,  the  play  on  words 
and  oddities  ol  look  and  speech,  were  always  at  his  com- 
mand ;  but  the  peculiarity  of  his  sportiveness  was  the 


MANHOOD.  299 

intensity  of  feeling  it  betrayed.  To  the  eye  of  sympa- 
thy it  was  plain  enough  that,  while  the  face  was  cheerful, 
the  soul  was  sad.  In  a  word,  he  used  humor  rightfully, 
as  oil  to  save  friction,  and  as  means  to  speed  the  pas- 
sage of  good-will. 

This  trait  showed  itself  most  freely  in  his  treatment  of 
his  wife  and  boys.  Though  naturally  irritable,  and  the 
prey  through  life  to  a  morbid  temperament,  for  the  most 
part  he  kept  up  a  good-natured  battle  with  annoyances, 
and  changed  petty  troubles  into  stimulants  of  mirth. 
He  was  ready  at  all  hours  to  be  playfellow,  comforter, 
guardian,  nurse.  He  could  be  a  child  among  his  chil- 
dren, and,  after  the  studies  and  cares  of  the  day,  enter 
heartily  into  a  game  of  romps,  a  wrestling-match,  a  tramp 
in  the  woods,  or  a  snowball  frolic.  He  had  the  w:isdom 
to  let  Nature  take  her  course  in  the  rough-and-tumble 
instincts  of  boyishness,  and  would  not  kill  the  buds  of 
manly  feeling  by  pulling  off'  the  husk  prematurely  or 
blowing  open  the  flowers.  It  was  his  aim  rather  to 
inculcate  gradually  high  principle  by  example,  than  irk- 
somely to  repeat  specific  precepts  ;  and  he  trusted  more 
to  an  implicit  reliance  on  his  judgment  and  kindness, 
called  out  by  calm  consistency,  than  to  a  timid  obedi- 
ence of  his  commands.  He  knew  so  well,  from  experi- 
ence, the  worth  of  a  self-relying  will,  that  he  preferred 
to  expose  his  sons  to  risks  rather  than  to  dwarf  and  en- 
feeble their  energies  by  over-fond  anxiety.  In  a  word, 
he  sought  rather  to  be  their  friendly  confidant  than  an 
authoritative  parent,  And  of  woman's  trials  he  was 
most  tenderly  considerate  ;  he  could  lift  the  galling  bur- 
dens of  the  mother  and  housewife  by  pleasant  diversions 
and  kindly  sympathy  ;  he  understood  and  remembered 
the  complex  details  that  must  be  harmoniously  ordered 


300  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

in  a  comfortable  home  ;  he  could  bear,  as  well  as  give, 
advice,  could  sacrifice  his  own  whims  and  predilections, 
and  was  too  grateful  for  the  sunny  sweetness  which  kept 
love's  garden  green,  to  be  vexed  at  every  withered  leaf 
or  broken  twig. 

In  the  training  of  his  children  intellectually,  Mr.  Per- 
kins was  apparently  negligent  ;  for  he  had  no  faith  in 
precocious  growth.  He  w;is  solicitous,  first  of  all,  to 
nourish  their  constitutional  vigor,  to  give  them  strength 
of  muscle,  and  to  clothe  their  nerves  with  a  covering 
sufficiently  tough  to  bear  the  rubs  of  life.  To  rouse 
their  senses  to  quick  and  accurate  observation,  to  accus- 
tom their  limbs  to  toil  as  hard  as  their  age  could  bear,  to 
fit  them  by  the  small  duties  of  home  for  faithfulness  in 
manly  functions,  was  the  surest  way,  he  was  convinced, 
of  laying  foundations  for  substantial  good  sense  ;  and  he 
had  no  fear  lest  they  would  not,  in  due  time,  overtake 
by  swift  progress  their  compeers  who  had  climbed  on 
before.  He  preferred,  too,  to  quicken  their  spiritual 
affections  rather  by  the  infusion  of  his  piety  than  by 
forms.  Meanwhile,  he  talked  with  his  boys  freely  on 
matters  small  or  great,  remote  or  near,  as  they  were 
suggested,  told  them  stories,  called  their  attention  to 
nature,  taught  them  how  to  use  their  faculties  in  work, 
and  read  to  them  such  passages  as  he  thought  would  be 
interesting  or  instructive.  Reading  aloud,  indeed,  was 
a  constant  pleasure  of  the  fireside,  and  Wordsworth, 
Southey,  Scott's  Novels,  Carlyle's  Sartor  Resartus  and 
French  Revolution,  and  the  good  current  tales,  reviews, 
popular  histories,  and  spirited  travels,  were  thus  enjoyed 
in  company  with  his  wife  and  their  visitors. 

They    \\ere,    in    truth,    seldom    alone.       Hospitable, 
cordial,  and  devotedly  fond  of  their  intimate  friends,  and 


MANHOOD.  301 

sought  for  their  own  sakes  by  others,  the  guest-chamber 
in  the  cottage  and  the  spare  seats  at  the  table  were  usu- 
ally filled.  At  different  periods,  young  ladies,  placed 
under  their  charge  for  purposes  of  education,  lived  with 
them  till  they  could  scarce  bear  to  be  parted  from  these 
second  parents  ;  and  for  many  months  at  a  time  a  young 
man  of  rare  genius,  but  most  eccentric  character,  who 
came  to  Cincinnati  for  the  mere  purpose  of  forming  Mr. 
Perkins's  acquaintance,  and  who  made  him  his  idol, 
was  an  inmate  at  their  house  as  if  he  had  been  a  brother. 
It  was  in  this  near  intercourse  that  the  loveliest  side  of 
Mr.  Perkins's  spirit  appeared.  Whatever  of  reserve  or 
stiffness  encased  his  manner  in  the  world  thawed  off  at 
home  ;  and  here  he  showed  the  genuine  sweetness  of  his 
character.  He  was  never  too  busy  or  absorbed  for  the 
exchange  of  friendly  words  and  acts  ;  and  his  simplicity 
of  speech  and  bearing  put  every  one  at  ease.  Espe- 
cially beautiful  was  his  intercourse  with  girls  and  young 
women.  In  common  with  all  men  of  genius,  the  femi- 
nine element  in  him  was  largely  developed,  and  his  re- 
fined sympathies  found  a  congenial  sphere  in  female 
society.  But  apart  from  natural  romance  of  disposition, 
he  had  the  profoundest  reverence  for  woman  in  herself, 
and  for  her  appointed  destiny.  He  had  caught  a  clear 
view  of  the  new  era,  opening  in  modern  Christian  soci- 
ety, of  -woman's  co-sovereignty  with  man ;  and  on  every 
young  girl  whom  he  met  he  looked  with  interest,  to 
learn  how  far  disposition  and  culture  combined  to  fit  her 
for  the  exercise  of  ennobling  influence.  It  was  in  his 
confidential  talks  with  a  circle  of  these,  that  his  hope 
and  imagination  found  wings.  He  liked  to  study  with 
them,  opening  by  his  suggestions  the  wide  west  of 
inquiry,  and  to  walk  with  them  in  cheerful  conversa- 
VOL.  i.  26 


302  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

tion,   rising   into    earnest    eloquence  as   mind   illumined 
mind. 

The  presence  of  friends  did  not  hinder,  but  rather 
aided,  Mr.  Perkins  in  his  intellectual  pursuits.  His 
method  was  so  centrally  controlling  that  he  did  not  need 
routine,  and  his  character  was  too  vitally  regular  to  be 
mechanical  in  act.  He  had  learned,  while  yet  a  youth 
in  a  counting-room,  the  art  of  carrying  on  his  mental 
operations  amidst  the  most  discordant  conditions  ;  and 
with  the  unconsciousness  of  habit  grown  to  second  na- 
ture, he  took  his  course  through  trifling  interruptions. 
He  was  the  strictest  economist  of  time.  The  moments 
were  never  left  to  run  to  waste  in  sands  of  sloth  ;  but 
all  that  did  not  turn  the  wheels  of  business,  or  fill  the 
streams  of  study,  were  made  to  water  the  garden-bed 
and  wild-flowers  of  fancy.  He  never  went  abroad  with- 
out a  book  in  his  pocket,  and  mastered  many  volumes 
every  year  while  waiting  for  the  omnibus  or  unpunctual 
committees.  He  was  earnestly  thoughtful,  even  when 
most  free.  He  could  melt  and  mint  the  results  of  hours 
of  reading  in  a  morning's  stroll,  and  held  his  treasurer, 
memory,  to  a  strict  account  of  her  stewardship.  Thus 
he  worked  easily  ;  and  the  noises  of  children  or  the  talk 
of  friends  did  not  distract  his  attention.  He  prepared 
himself  by  thorough,  though  rapid,  reading  before  begin- 
ning to  write  ;  and  when  he  put  pen  to  paper,  so  strong 
was  his  concentration,  so  discriminating  his  power  of 
analysis,  and,  above  all,  so  truthful  his  intellect,  that  he 
seldom  needed  to  make  a  correction,  or  even  an  erasure. 
Indeed,  in  all  his  processes,  as  student,  writer,  lecturer, 
preacher,  he  was  singularly  consistent  with  himself.  He 
knew  precisely  what  he  wished  to  do,  to  what  his  pow- 
ers were  adequate,  and  the  readiest  mode  to  fulfil  his 


MANHOOD.  303 

work  ;  and  thus,  though  often  aiming  at  moderate  suc- 
cess, he  never  failed,  and  generally  surpassed,  expecta- 
tion. This  practical  efficiency  he  carried  into  all  the 
business  of  life.  A  more  direct,  prompt,  punctual, 
thorough  person,  it  is  rare  to  meet  ;  and  he  was  as  exact 
an  economist  and  prudent  a  manager  as  he  was  large  in 
ideal  aims  and  boldly  enthusiastic. 

Yet  the  true  LIFE  of  Mr.  Perkins  was  a  guarded  cen- 
tre, to  which  friends,  children,  wife  even,  seldom  pene- 
trated ;  and  of  this  his  writings  and  sermons  gave  only  a 
distant  glimpse.  To  those  who  knew  and  loved  him 
best  he  seemed  subject  to  moods  ;  but  few  conjectured 
the  intensity  of  his  inward  struggles.  Though  his  intel- 
lect was  so  capacious,  well  ordered,  and  strong,  the  pas- 
sional element  in  him  was  in  many  respects  extravagant. 
By  nature,  as  he  well  knew,  he  was  prompted  by  fiery 
emotions.  He  could  change  with  a  flash  from  tenderness 
to  haughty  severity  ;  by  his  very  longing  for  sympathy, 
he  was  tempted  to  crave  exclusive  regard  ;  conscious  of 
power,  he  was  instinctively  fond  of  sway  ;  and  the  viv- 
idness of  his  ideality  made  common  life  seem  tame. 
Other  weaknesses  not  a  few  he  was  also  painfully  aware 
of.  The  real  greatness  of  his  life  was  in  the  incessant 
warfare  with  these  wayward  tendencies  ;  and  to  a  high 
degree  he  mastered  them.  God  and  good  angels  alone 
are  pure  enough  to  estimate  the  worth  of  his  self-disci- 
pline. Friends  can  only  reverently  admire  the  fact,  — 
that  a  man,  who,  ungoverned  by  conscience,  might  have 
been  vindictive,  jealous,  ambitious,  and  unstable,  was 
gently  merciful,  disinterested,  humble,  and  constantly 
progressive.  To  those  who  had  the  eye  to  discern  his 
spirit  through  his  nature,  the  moral  heroism  and  pious 
aspiration  of  James  Perkins  were  sublime. 

It  is   not  surprising,  that  one  who  was  so  constantly 


304  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

humbled  by  conscious  struggle  with  sin  should  have  felt 
as  if  others  would  recognize  his  frailties.  Indeed,  how 
could  he  esteem  highly  the  conscience  of  those  who  did 
not  detect  faults  which  to  him  were  so  glaring  ?  And  in 
proportion  as  he  honored  friends  for  their  excellence,  he 
disclaimed  for  himself  a  right  to  their  affection.  This 
self-distrust  increased  his  natural  diffidence  ;  and  both 
conspired  to  produce  a  reserve,  which  gained  a  deepened 
shade  from  the  very  perception  that  it  repelled  those 
around  him.  He  was  too  generous  to  receive  a  love 
which  he  could  not  overpay  in  return  ;  perhaps  he  was 
too  proud  to  seek  affection  which  was  not  freely  given  ; 
and  one  who  was  so  stern  towards  himself  could  not 
always  be  tolerant  of  others.  This  distance  of  manner 
was  heightened  by  his  finest  virtues.  The  prevalent 
standard  of  conduct  and  character  was  so  low,  that  he 
would  neither  govern  himself  by  popular  maxims,  nor 
pretend  a  respect  for  what  excited  only  his  contempt. 
The  habit  of  referring  to  his  inward  oracle  gave  him  a 

O  CJ 

feeling  of  independence  which  could  not  but  manifest 
itself  outwardly.  The  falsehood  of  conventional  formal- 
ities seemed  oftentimes  to  demand  a  disregard  of  eti- 
quettes, if  merely  to  preserve  truthfulness  of  heart.  His 
consciousness  of  half-stifled  ambition  made  him  put  aside 
as  a  tempter  the  honors  which  others  were  ready  to  ren- 
der. And  his  cordial  delight  in  genuine  love  filled  him 
with  disgust  for  fussy  sentimentalism. 

Notwithstanding  defects  of  manner,  however,  Mr. 
Perkins  was  really  a  social  man.  He  was  unfitted  by 
taste  and  habit,  indeed,  for  fashionable  life,  and  was  apt 
to  be  more  courteous  to  the  poor  in  their  garrets  or  cel- 
lars than  he  was  to  belles  and  beaux  in  a  ball-room  ; 
yet,  though  prone  it  may  be  to  undervalue  the  graceful 
elegances  of  life,  he  was  too  genuinely  reverent  to  be 


MANHOOD.  305 

rude.  In  circles  where  he  was  known,  and  could  meet 
his  fellows  face  to  face,  he  was  a  charming  companion. 
There  was  a  fascination  in  his  mingled  frankness  and  re- 
tenue  ;  and  while  his  sincerity  won  confidence,  there 
hung  around  him  a  veil  of  mystery  that  one  longed  to  lift. 
His  wisdom  wore  so  pleasant  an  air  of  comic  serious- 
ness, that  he  could  preach  in  private  without  being  dull, 
and  his  very  censure  left  no  sting.  He  was  fond  of  ar- 
gumentation as  the  means  of  bringing  out  all  sides  of 
a  subject,  and  invariably  defended  the  principle,  party, 
person,  seemingly  most  weak.  Though  living  out  of 
town,  he  still  kept  up  intimate  relationship  with  the  city  ; 
and  in  the  neighbourhood  at  Walnut  Hills  there  grad- 
ually gathered  the  families  of  some  of  his  most  valued 
friends,  in  intercourse  with  whom  he  was  like  a  brother. 
He  was  often  visited,  also,  by  influential  persons,  who 
wished  to  consult  whir  him  on  important  measures,  ques- 
tions of  public  policy,  or  perplexed  private  affairs  ;  and 
the  poor  whom  he  had  aided,  or  who  were  sent  to  him 
for  advice,  were  glad  to  rest  for  a  while  in  the  quiet  of 
his  cottage,  and  feel  the  refreshment  of  his  cordial  sym- 
pathy. Letters  daily  arrived,  too,  from  reformers,  teach- 
ers, scholars,  and  the  seekers  for  unsectarian  religious 
unions  ;  and  young  men,  who  saw  in  his  example  of  self- 
help  and  humane  services  a  noble  model,  gathered  round 
him  to  catch  the  impulse  of  his  prescience,  calm  inten- 
sity, and  large  good-will.  Like  Ernest  in  "  The  Great 
Stone  Face,"  he  had  gazed  so  long  and  ardently  upon 
the  ideal  of  manly  goodness,  that  others  saw  reflected  in 
him  the  beauty  which  he  sought.* 

*  Hawthorne's  exquisite  tale  has  seemed  to  others,  as  to  me,  like 
a  portrait  of  our  friend. 

26* 


306  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

From  amidst  this  home,  these  spheres  of  usefulness, 
our  friend  departed  suddenly,  in  the  gloomy  days,  when 
northern  zones  are  most  darkened  by  the  earth's  shadow. 
With  the  returning  sun  of  Christmas,  let  us  trust  that  he 
entered  on  brighter  mansions,  and  more  loving  society, 
in  communion  with  the  Light  of  Life. 

The  half  of  a  man's  existence  is  in  the  impression  that 
he  makes  on  others  ;  and  from  the  following  tributes  of 
affectionate  reverence,  called  out  by  his  death,  some 
image  may  be  formed  of  James  H.  Perkins. 

"  Our  readers  are  all  aware  of  the  sudden  death  of  Rev. 
James  H.  Perkins,  pastor  of  the  First  Congregational  Church 
of  Cincinnati,  by  drowning  from  the  Jamestown  ferry-boat, 
on  Friday  evening  last,  December  14th. 

"  We  recollect  no  previous  occurrence  which  cast  so  deep 
and  general  a  gloom  over  this  community  as  that  in  which 
it  has  been  wrapped  by  the  death  of  this  estimable  man. 
Mr.  Perkins  had  so  endeared  himself  to  the  poor  by  his  com- 
prehensive benevolence  and  unceasing  charities ;  had  been 
for  so  long  a  time  the  light  and  life  of  intellectual  and  social 
circles  ;  had  so  ingrained  himself  into  the  common  heart, 
and  won  the  universal  sympathy  by  his  brilliant  mental  en- 
dowments, and  the  untiring  devotion  of  his  time  and  means 
and  health  to  whatever  would  give  relief  to  the  sick,  or  add 
a  grace  to  the  whole,  —  to  whatever  would  in  his  estimation 
promote  the  best  and  truest  interests  of  society, —  that  all 
classes  were  his  friends.  If  any  knew  him  except  to  love 
him,  or  named  him  except  to  praise,  they  are  of  those  who 
are  themselves  unknown  and  unloved.  To  all,  therefore, 
the  announcement  of  his  untimely  death  came  with  a  shock, 
and  to  every  heart  brought  a  most  poignant  sorrow.  It  is 
not  transcending  the  truth  to  say,  that  not  one  of  the  hun- 
dred thousand  souls  comprising  our  population  could  have 


MANHOOD.  307 

been  tnken  away,  who  would  have  been  so  generally  missed 
or  so  deeply  mourned. 

"  For  a  period  of  between  fifteen  and  twenty  years,  during 
which  time  we  have  known  Mr.  Perkins  well,  he  has  been 
subject  to  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  which  has 
produced  distressing  vertigo,  at  times  greatly  impaired  his 
sight,  and  often  thrown  him  into  deep  despondency.  Within 
the  past  five  or  six  years  he  has  suffered  intensely  from  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart,  often  being  incapacitated  by  his  dis- 
tressing affection  for  the  discharge  of  his  pastoral  and  other 
duties.  On  Friday  last,  a  paroxysm  of  this  kind  was  pro- 
duced by  the  agitation  he  suffered  in  consequence  of  the 
supposed  loss  of  his  two  children.  In  the  morning  of  that 
day  one  of  his  little  boys  aged  nine  years,  and  another  aged 
seven,  rode  to  the  city  from  Mr.  Perkins's  residence,  on 
Walnut  Hills,  with  a  neighbour,  and  were  to  return  home 
in  the  omnibus,  at  the  stand  of  which  their  father,  who  was 
to  come  in  by  another  conveyance,  was  to  meet  them. 
Not  finding  them  there  at  the  appointed  time,  Mr.  Perkins 
feared  that  they  had  lost  themselves,  and  commenced  search- 
ing for  them.  Being  unsuccessful,  he  became  more  and 
more  agitated  the  farther  he  went,  and  finally  employed  the 
crier,  who  met  with  no  better  success.  The  search  was  at 
length  abandoned,  and  in  despair,  and  fatigued  as  he  was, 
Mr.  Perkins  walked  home,  a  distance  of  nearly  four  miles, 
whither  his  children  had  preceded  him. 

"  He  reached  his  residence  about  one  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, utterly  exhausted  ;  but,  after  lying  down  for  a  time, 
rose  and  dined.  He  could  not,  however,  overcome  the  ex- 
citement into  which  he  had  been  thrown,  although  the  chil- 
dren were  with  him  and  well.  He  was  restless  and  nervous 
to  a  degree  never  before  witnessed  by  his  family  ;  and  so 
continuing,  about  five  o'clock  he  told  his  wife  that  he  would 
take  a  walk  to  calm  his  nerves,  but  not  be  gone  long,  —  that 
he  wished  to  try  and  allay  the  excitement,  but  would  be 


308  LIFE    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

back  before  tea-time.  lie  went  out  thus,  but  did  not  return, 
and  nothing  was  seen  of  him  afterwards  by  his  family  or 
friends. 

"  Early  on  Saturday  morning  a  report  was  spread  from 
the  Jamestown  Crossing  of  the  Ohio,  that  on  the  previous 
evening  a  man  had  drowned  himself  from  the  ferry-boat  at 
that  point,  leaving  behind  him  several  articles  of  clothing, 
among  them  an  overcoat,  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  which 
was  found  a  memorandum-book,  with  initials  in  several 
places.  A  gentleman  of  the  city,  who  happened  to  have 
business  on  the  boat,  asked  to  see  the  book,  and  upon  open- 
ing it  saw  the  letters  '  J.  H.  P.,'  with  which  he  was  familiar. 
He  immediately  rode  to  the  residence  of  Mr.  Perkins's  fam- 
ily with  the  information. 

"  Upon  subsequent  inquiry,  it  was  ascertained  that  not 
quite  half  an  hour  elapsed  between  leaving  his  home  and 
reaching  the  ferry,  which  is  distant  from  a  half  to  three 
fourths  of  a  mile.  With  his  arms  folded  and  eyes  bent  upon 
the  ground,  he  walked  hastily  on  board,  and  crossed  to  the 
outer  side  of  the  boat,  standing  on  the  very  edge,  and  look- 
ing into  the  water.  There  being  no  carriages,  the  bar  was 
not  up.  The  ferryman  said,  loudly  enough  for  him  to  hear, 
'  That  man  will  be  overboard  if  he  does  not  take  care.'  Mr. 
Perkins  looked  round,  but  did  not  speak.  He,  however, 
changed  his  position.  This  was  the  last  that  was  seen  of 
him.  After  a  while  the  collector  discovered  an  overcoat, — 
in  which  was  found  the  memorandum-book  referred  to,  —  a 
wrapper,  a  vest,  a  cap,  and  a  pair  of  spectacles,  all  of  which 
have  been  identified  as  belonging  to  Mr.  Perkins. 

"  The  supposition  among  those  well  acquainted  with  the 
peculiar  mental  constitution  of  the  deceased,  and  his  severe 
physical  sufferings,  is,  tbat  his  walk,  instead  of  allaying  his 
excitement,  still  further  increased  it,  till  reason  was  tempo- 
rarily dethroned.  In  a  wandering  mood,  not  knowing  whither 
he  went,  he  had  doubtless  reached  the  Jamestown  Ferry, 


MANHOOD.  309 

and  in  a  paroxysm  of  mental  aberration  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  stream. 

"  The  unusual  fatigue  and  excitement  of  Friday  morning 
had  hrought  on  a  more  violent  palpitation  of  the  heart  than 
Mr.  Perkins  had  ever  before  experienced.  In  lighter  attacks 
his  friends  have  frequently  thought  his  brain  temporarily 
affected  by  his  sufferings  ;  and  although  nothing  of  the  kind 
was  observed  by  those  who  assisted  him  in  the  search  for 
his  children  on  Friday  morning,  or  by  his  family  when  he 
left  the  house  for  the  walk  on  Friday  evening,  it  probably 
soon  came  on,  producing  the  melancholy  termination  re- 
corded of  his  beautiful  and  useful  life. 

"  The  waters  closed  over  his  body  still  and  dark  ;  but  so 
shall  not  human  forgetfulness  close  over  his  good  deeds. 
These  were  many  and  long  continued,  and  will  live  and 
grow  brighter  and  brighter  in  thousands  of  hearts,  till  they, 
too,  cease  to  beat,  and  pass  away  and  unite  with  his  again 
in  the  great  hereafter." — WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER,  Cincin- 
nati Gazette. 

"  The  profound  sorrow  into  which  our  city  was  thrown 
on  Saturday  last,  by  the  sudden  and  melancholy  death  of 
this  good  man,  and  the  tone  of  the  numerous  notices  of  the 
event  and  remarks  on  his  character  that  have  since  been 
made  in  the  newspapers,  show  the  extent  and  force  of  his 
hold  on  the  respect  and  affections  of  the  community.  If 
there  is  one  heart  that  does  not  share  in  the  general  grief 
for  his  loss,  if  there  is  one  tongue  that  does  not  join  in  the 
common  tribute  to  his  virtues,  if  there  is  one  soul  that  does 
not  unite  in  the  seemingly  universal  homage  paid  to  his 
active  goodness,  we  do  not  know  it.  Persons  of  all  ages 
and  all  classes  express  the  highest  reverence  for  his  elevated 
Christian  character,  and  the  deepest  regret  at  the  time  and 
manner  of  his  departure  from  the  sphere  of  his  earthly  loves 
and  labors.  And  of  this  sorrow  and  this  respect,  profound 


310  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

and  all-pervading  as  they  are,  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  ?ay, 
he  was  eminently  worthy.  Years  ago  he  devoted  his  life  to 
the  service  of  (rod,  the  ylory  of  Christ,  and  the  good  of  his 
fellow-men  ;  and  humbly,  patiently,  and  laboriously,  amid 
many  hardships  and  many  discouragements,  through  sor- 
rows and  sufferings  of  his  own  that  would  have  daunted  a 
less  resolute  heart,  he  gave  it,  day  after  day,  season  after 
season,  year  after  year."  —  Cincinnati  Columbian. 

"  Cincinnati,  December  2Qlh,  1819.  Mr.  Perkins  in  the 
common  affairs  of  life  was  a  man  of  a  sensible,  well-bal- 
anced mind.  He  was  eminently  practical,  devoting  his 
time,  energy,  and  means  to  the  relief  of  the  poor  and 
suffering  of  every  class,  lie  was  President  of  the  City 
Relief  Union,  of  which  he  was  the  main  originator,  —  an 
institution  which  has  for  some  time  been  doing  more  than 
any  other  for  the  poor.  For  some  days  before  his  decease 
his  mornings  were  spent  in  its  rooms,  in  listening  to  the 
tales  of  the  suffering,  and  giving  orders  for  their  relief. 
His  comprehensive  plans  for  the  diminution  of  suffering 
and  crime,  his  increasing  charities,  his  fine  social  qualities, 
his  mental  endowments,  —  indeed,  his  whole  character  was 
such  as  to  endear  him  to  all  who  knew  him,  personally  or 
by  reputation."  —  Correspondence  of  the  National  Era. 

"  In  him  the  poor  have  lost  a  friend,  the  youth  a  faithful 
counsellor  and  guide,  and  the  good  feel  as  if  a  link  that 
bound  them  to  the  world  of  unsullied  purity  was  snapped 
asunder.  Mr.  Perkins  was  a  man  of  the  highest  integrity  to 
the  world,  and  honesty  to  himself.  He  was  an  earnest 
seeker  after  truth,  and  bold  in  its  avowal.  He  possessed  a 
fine  analytical  mind,  a  copious  diction,  and  the  eloquence  of 
his  discourse  was  that  which  wells  up  spontaneously  from  a 
full  soul,  and  an  acute  sense  of  the  great  responsibility  of 
his  position.  If  any  could  criticize  the  consistency  of  his 


MANHOOD.  311 

views,  one  with  the  other,  it  was  because  they  did  not  view 
the  subject  through  the  same  medium.  He  was  benevolent 
in  that  exalted  import  given  to  the  word  by  Him  who  bore 
his  own  cross  to  the  place  of  his  crucifixion  without  a  mur- 
mur of  reproach.  Him  did  our  departed  friend  imitate  in 
his  humility,  his  gentleness,  his  simplicity,  his  kindness,  and 
his  charity." 

"  If  the  mantle  of  charity  should  ever  cover  the  end  of  a 
good  man,  thus  ushered  into  the  presence  of  his  God,  it 
would  be  accorded  to  the  deceased  by  the  universal  ac- 
claim of  his  fellow-men.  He  who  so  liberally  dispensed  the 
sweets  of  charity  to  suffering  humanity  is  certainly  entitled 
to  a  share  of  it  now.  Had  we  been  called  upon  to  name 
one  as  perfect,  and  possessing  more  of  the  Divine  attributes 
in  his  composition  than  any  other  human  being,  we  should 
have  unhesitatingly  pointed  out  him  whose  melancholy  end 
it  is  our  painful  duty  to  record.  The  poor  of  this  inclement 
season  have  lost  in  him  their  best  friend.  He  was  ever 
among  them,  day  and  night,  no  matter  how  inclement  the 
season,  sacrificing  his  own  health  and  comfort  to  relieve  the 
wants  of  suffering  humanity." —  Cincinnati  Papers. 

"  No  one,  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  Perkins,  can  for  a  moment  doubt  that  he 
committed  the  act  when  his  judgment  had  lost  its  balance, 
and  his  mind  was  in  that  state  of  utter  distraction  which  is 
denominated  insanity. 

"  We  doubt  whether  Cincinnati  numbers  among  her  citi- 
zens any  one  who  has  performed  such  .valuable  service  to 
the  community  as  Mr.  Perkins  did.  For  a  series  of  years 
he  dedicated  himself  with  his  whole  heart  to  relieving  the 
necessities  of  the  poor,  and  to  visiting  the  widow  and  the 
fatherless.  He  was  a  genuine  benefactor,  and  so  great  was 
the  confidence  of  the  people  of  Cincinnati  in  him,  that,  not- 


312  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

withstanding  he  belonged  to  a  denomination  of  Christians 
generally  regarded  as  heretical,  he  was  the  chosen  deposi- 
tary of  the  charities  of  hundreds  of  those  who,  while  ac- 
knowledging the  rare  excellence  of  the  man,  very  cordially 
denounced  his  articles  of  faith.  He  enkindled  the  light  of 
hope  and  self-respect  in  thousands  of  desolate  hosoms,  and 
relumed  the  fires  on  thousands  of  cold  and  cheerless  hearths. 
By  the  poor  he  was,  of  course,  regarded  with  feelings  of  the 
most  profound  respect,  for  in  him  they  always  found  a  fast 
friend. 

"  Mr.  Perkins  was  one  of  the  ablest  men  in  the  West. 
His  articles  in  the  New  ^ork  Review  and  North  American 
Review  are  among  the  best  that  ever  appeared  in  their 
pages.  He  has  at  times  published  sketches  abounding  in 
the  most  sunny  humor,  and  stories  illustrative  of  moral 
principles.  Every  thing  that  he  did  was  well  done,  —  better 
than  almost  any  one  else  could  have  done  it.  His  mind 
was  well  balanced  in  its  powers.  He  had  a  magnificent 
imagination,  a  judgment  of  great  power  and  truthfulness, 
and  a  memory  clear  and  comprehensive.  The  play  of  his 
fancy  was  exquisite.  He  was  witty,  humorous,  satirical, 
and  sarcastic  at  will.  He  was  a  pleasant  companion,  a 
useful  citizen,  and  a  good  man.  In  the  aggregate  power  of 
mind,  he  has  left  few  persons  behind  him  in  the  city  in 
which  the  years  of  his  manhood  were  spent,  that  can  for  a 
moment  be  ranked  with  himself.  His  discourses  in  the 
church  in  which  he  officiated  as  a  pastor,  for  several  years, 
were  plain,  and  yet  powerful  ;  in  thought  they  were  very 
elevated  ;  in  utterance  they  were  marked  by  simplicity  and 
intelligibility.  \Ve  have  known  him  for  many  years,  and 
we  have  known  but  few  men  who,  '  take  them  all  in  all,' 
did  not  fall  far  below  him. 

"  That  such  a  generous  heart,  that  such  a  gifted  and 
powerful  mind,  should  have  met  with  such  an  end,  is  to  us 
very  inscrutable.  The  heart  that  was  very  warm  toward  all 


MANHOOD.  313 

the  lonely  and  the  afflicted  has  ceased  to  beat,  beneath  the 
cold  wave  of  the  Ohio,  and  the  mind  that  had  conversed 
with  the  minds  of  the  good  and  the  great  of  all  ages,  and 
had  afforded  delight  and  instruction  to  many  thousands,  was 
quenched,  so  far  as  the  world  is  concerned,  in  a  moment  of 
its  aberration.  That  glorious  head,  so  dream-like  and  so 
intellectual  in  its  form  and  expression,  around  which  so  many 
visions  of  the  beautiful  floated  and  lingered,  the  home  of  so 
many  noble  purposes  of  extensive  usefulness,  is  now  dark 
and  cold.  A  superior  spirit  has  passed  from  earth,  and  is 
now,  we  trust,  imparadised  in  those  heavenly  mansions  to 
merit  which  it  dedicated  itself  to  deeds  of  good  while  here." 
—  T.  H.  SHREVE,  Louisville  Journal. 

"  ROOMS  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN'S  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 
ASSOCIATION,  Cincinnati,  December  29,  1849.  At  a  stated 
meeting  of  the  Board  of  Directors,  it  was 

"  Resolved,  '  That  this  Board  have  learned  with  profound 
regret  the  death  of  REV.  JAMES  H.  PERKINS,  late  a  life- 
member,  and  from  its  organization  a  warm  friend,  as  well 
as  preeminently  a  very  liberal  benefactor,  of  this  Association. 

" '  That  while  few  words  best  befit  the  solemnity  of  the 
occasion,  and  the  deep  and  all-pervading  sorrow  of  this  com- 
munity, the  YOUNG  MEN'S  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSOCIA- 
TION feel  a  right  and  privilege  to  bear  public  testimony  to 
the  worth,  exalted  talents,  and  earnest  philanthropy,  —  to  the 
dignity  and  beauty  of  life  and  character  of  the  deceased  : 
his  counsels  and  benefactions  were  ever  lavished  upon  this 
institution,  and  his  memory  will  be  cherished  among  us,  as 
in  a  peculiar  manner  the  friend  of  young  men,  —  in  its  lar- 
gest and  truest  sense,  the  friend  of  all  mankind. 

"  '  That,  as  an  expression  of  respect  and  heart-felt  sympa- 
thy, a  copy  of  this  minute  be  transmitted  to  the  family  of 
the  deceased  ;  that  it  be  presented  at  the  first  general  meet- 
ing of  the  Association  for  a  place  on  its  permanent  records ; 

VOL.  i.  27 


314  UFK    OF    JAMES    II.    PERKINS. 

and  that  copies  of  the  same  be  furnished  the  daily  papers  of 
the  city  for  publication.' 

"  At  the  annual  meeting  in  January,  after  the  reading  of 
the  annual  report,  the  chair  having  called  for  resolutions 
referred  to  in  that  document,  MR.  LUPTON  said, — 

"  k  I  am  charged,  Mr.  President,  with  the  presentation  of  a 
very  brief  minute  adopted  by  the  Board  of  Directors  upon 
the  melancholy  occasion  of  the  death  of  Rev.  J.  II.  Perkins, 
for  which,  if  it  meet  the  pleasure  of  this  meeting,  I  have  to 
ask  a  place  on  the  permanent  records. 

"  '  The  life  of  Mr.  Perkins  was  a  living  eulogy  :  his  identi- 
fication with  this  society,  his  labors  of  love,  and  the  value  of 
his  counsels  and  benefactions,  are  best  known  to  those  who 
in  years  past  have  been  most  conversant  with  the  business 
affairs  and  history  of  the  Association  his  death  caused  the 
heart  of  the  community  to  throb.  It  is  not  for  me,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, on  this  solemn  occasion,  to  presume  to  offer  a  single 
word  of  panegyric.  As  an  humble  member  of  the  Young 
Men's  Mercantile  Library  Association,  and  of  this  commu- 
nity, I  can  but  place  my  hand  on  my  mouth,  my  mouth  in 
the  dust,  inasmuch  as  the  hand  of  God  has  been  indeed  laid 
heavily  upon  us.' 

"  A  motion  to  approve,  and  enter  on  the  minutes,  seconded 
by  Mr.  llartwell,  was  then  carried  by  a  unanimous  vote  of 
the  Association. 

"  Of  Mr.  Pei kins  we  will  not  attempt  to  speak  in  terms  of 
befitting  eulogy.  In  the  removal  of  this  good  man,  the 
entire  community  has  sustained  an  irreparable  loss.  His 
blameless  purity  of  life,  unostentatious  benevolence,  and 
unaffected  piety,  had  won  for  him  universal  esteem  and  ven- 
eration. The  subdued  tone  in  which  the  news  of  his  mel- 
ancholy and  untimely  end  was  communicated  from  lip  to  lip, 
and  the  all-pervading  sadness  it  occasioned,  attest,  in  lan- 
guage more  eloquent  than  words,  how  deeply  enshrined  in 
the  popular  heart  is  the  memory  of  him  whose  life  had  been 


MANHOOD.  315 

consecrated  to  virtuous  deeds.  Perhaps  to  no  man  in  this 
community  is  our  Association  more  largely  indebted  for  wise 
counsels  and  liberal  benefactions ;  and,  while  it  becomes  us 
to  bow  in  humble  submission  to  the  inscrutable  dispensation 
which  has  removed  him  for  ever  from  the  scene  of  his  earthly 
labors,  we  may  be  permitted  to  mingle  our  sympathies  in  the 
common  bereavement." 

HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  OF  OHIO.  — "  At  a  special  meeting 
of  the  Historical  Society  of  Ohio,  held  at  the  Society's 
rooms,  on  Monday  the  24th  instant,  after  the  transaction  of 
the  regular  business  of  the  association,  the  following  tribute 
of  respect  to  the  memory  of  James  H.  Perkins,  late  Vice- 
President  of  the  Society,  —  offered  by  Edwin  R.  Camp- 
bell, — was  unanimously  adopted. 

"  Whereas,  in  common  with  our  fellow-citizens  at  large, 
we  deeply  feel  the  loss  of  a  valued  member  of  this  society, 
and  of  society  in  general,  —  James  H.  Perkins,  late  Vice- 
President  of  this  association,  —  it  is  hereby 

"  Resolved,  That  we  deeply  deplore  the  sudden  and  un- 
expected private  and  public  bereavement,  which  has  deprived 
us  of  a  valued  brother  and  associate,  who  contributed  so 
largely  to  the  good  of  his  fellow-men,  to  the  objects  of  our 
Association,  and  to  the  Historical  Annals  of  the  West. 

"  Mr.  Perkins  was  a  pride  to  this  city,  —  a  man  whom  all 
delighted  to  honor,  — one  who,  though  dead,  shall  not  be  lost 
to  us,  —  whose  example  is  still  with  us,  —  and  the  remem- 
brance of  his  conduct  will  still  incite  us  to  deeds  of  kindness, 
greatness,  and  philanthropy." 

"  If  an  expression  of  deepest,  heart-felt  regret  be  permit- 
ted to  any,  it  surely  will  not  be  denied  to  one  who,  in  com- 
mon with  so  many  children  of  misfortune,  has  recently  lost 
in  departed  worth  a  friend  and  a  brother.  Regrets  may  be 
vain,  as  all  earthly  benefits  are  transitory ;  yet  it  is  an 


316  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

abiding  consolation  to  reflect  that  he  who  so  nobly  fulfilled 
his  mission  here,  who  went  about  doing  good  continually, 
who  overtaxed  his  mental  and  physical  powers  in  unceasing 
efforts  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellows,  and  undoubtedly  suf- 
fered shipwreck  of  his  life  in  consequence,  has  gone  hence 
only  to  enjoy  those  abiding  treasures  which  his  good  deeds 
had  laid  up  for  immortality.  Nor  can  his  bright  example 
be  lost  to  our  community  ;  for,  like  every  excellent  person 
of  past  ages,  in  the  lapse  of  time  he  will  only  become  more 
duly  appreciated.  And  long  indeed  will  the  widow,  the 
orphan,  and  the  fatherless  embalm  his  memory  with  tears." 

"  I  cannot  help  feeling,  that  his  death  must  have  proceed- 
ed from  derangement  of  the  mental  powers,  brought  on  by 
disappointment  that  he  lived  in  a  day  and  generation  which 
knew  him  not,  and  could  not  comprehend  a  life  so  much 
superior  to  the  conceptions  of  a  people  who  had  little  aspi- 
ration. I  do  not  know  that  I  am  ri^K  in  this  conjecture  ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  very  clear,  that  his  mind  could  never 
have  been  perplexed  by  causes  that  operate  on  the  world  at 
large.  From  the  little  I  knew  of  him  and  his  endeavours 
after  a  true  life,  I  looked  upon  him  as  one  of  the  purest  and 
brightest  spirits  of  our  a<:e,  and  he  approached  my  beau- 
ideal  of  a  perfect  man  more  nearly  than  any  other." 

"  The  more  I  think  what  his  life  was,  how  laboriously  de- 
voted to  the  best  interests  of  society,  the  more  I  feel  how 
great  the  loss  has  been.  His  influence  was  great  every 
way,  but  most  of  all  through  his  life,  through  the  rare  ex- 
ample he  set  of  disinterestedness,  magnanimity,  the  love  of 
truth,  and  his  generous  and  exalted  aims." — EPHRAIM  PEA- 
BODY,  Boston,  Mass. 

"  James  was  to  me  more  like  a  brother  than  almost  any 
friend  I  ever  had.  In  him  I  found  sympathy  in  all  things. 


MANHOOD.  317 

Whether  we  agreed  or  differed,  I  was  sure  of  his  under- 
standing and  appreciating  my  thoughts  and  motives.  There 
was  no  veil  between  us.  I  am  truly  thankful  for  the  good  I 
have  derived  from  his  friendship.  All  his  aims  were  so 
noble,  so  free  from  selfishness,  that  no  one  could  associate 
with  him  without  becoming  better.  It  was  this  which  made 
his  society  so  attractive,  and  his  influence  so  great  among 
the  better  part  of  the  young  persons  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  His  power  was  entirely  unknown  to  him,  because 
he  was  entirely  unconscious  of  its  exercise.  His  ardor  in 
the  cause  of  every  good  object  was  somewhat  chilled,  and 
himself  disheartened,  by  the  want  of  a  purity  and  disinter- 
estedness in  others  like  that  which  he  possessed,  and  which 
he  thought  to  be  natural  to  all.  He  was  disappointed,  also, 
at  the  seemingly  small  amount  of  his  influence  in  directing 
the  thoughts  and  exertions  of  others  rightly,  because  he  knew 
how  easily  his  own  were  guided.  The  very  elements  in  his 
character  which  gave  him  so  much  influence  for  good  made 
him  unconscious  that  he  possessed  any."  •—  ESTES  HOWE, 
Cambridge,  Mass. 

"  I  have  known  but  few  whose  abilities  and  character 
rose  into  the  same  high  region  of  my  respect  which  his 
steadily  occupied.  There  was  a  Christian  sincerity  and 
breadth  of  character,  a  purity  of  aim,  and  a  comprehensive 
humanity  of  feeling  in  him  rarely  equalled,  with  a  modest 
independence,  which  as  I  remember  it,  in  its  peculiarity  of 
granite  firmness,  yet  almost  blushing  regard  for  another's 
opinion,  was  all  his  own.  His  virtue  is  not  lost,  but  trans- 
planted, growing  in  a  kindlier  soil." — C.  A.  BARTOL,  Bos- 
ton, Mass. 

"  Of  all  men  I  have   met  in  life  since  boyhood,  I  have 
learned  to  respect  him  most  and  love  him  best.     Among  the 
choicest  of  my  recollections,  I  shall  value  my  intercourse 
27* 


318  LIFE    OF    JAMES    H.    PERKINS. 

with  him,  and  your  communication  that  he  was  attached  to 
me.  If  remembrances  of  his  commanding  intellect,  of  his 
varied  and  extended  attainments,  of  his  genial  spirit,  and  of 
his  life  spent  in  doing  good,  or  if  the  most  wide-spread 
and  heart-felt  sympathies,  could  console  his  family  for  his 
loss,  they  are  poured  in  upon  them  without  measure  or 
stint."  —  E.  LANE,  Sandusky,  Ohio. 

"  Not  a  day  has  passed  that  my  mind  has  not  dwelt  on 
the  sad  change,  and  pictured  the  many  happy  days  1  have 
passed  in  your  family.  Mr.  Perkins  was  my  beau-ideal  of 
all  that  was  great  and  good  in  this  world,  and  I  have  often 
told  my  friends,  that  I  looked  upon  him  as  the  best  man  I 
ever  knew ;  and  I  shall  always  feel  that  I  received  from  him 
more  real  good  than  from  any  other  man."  —  FRANK  P. 
ABBOT,  Baltimore,  Md. 

"  No  young  girl,  it  seems  to  me,  ever  had  such  a  friend, 
—  ever  suffered  such  a  loss ;  his  tender  care,  his  loving 
looks  and  words,  are  always  in  my  heart,  and  I  can  never 
hope  in  this  world  to  meet  with  another  in  the  least  like 
him.  It  seems  now  as  if  I  could  never  fear  death  again.  I 
feel,  should  I  die,  that  I  must  certainly  see  his  face  of  per- 
fect goodness,  his  loving  gaze,  and  that  he  would  gently 
take  my  hand  in  his  as  he  has  so  often  done  in  this  life. 
Certainly  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  had,  even  for  a  short 
time,  the  love  and  friendship  of  such  a  perfect  being." 

"  You  know  how  much  I  was  indebted  to  the  care  and 
kindness  of  Mr.  Perkins.  I  owe  the  little  good  that  is  in  me 
to  him,  for  how  patiently  and  kindly  he  toiled  to  rouse  my 
better  nature;  and  the  principles  he  almost  imperceptibly 
instilled  into  me  have  enabled  me  to  overcome  trials  that 
would  otherwise  have  crushed  me.  I  mourn  for  him  as  I 
would  for  a  tenderly  loved  brother,  and  while  I  know  that 


MANHOOD.  319 

he  is  lost  to  us  here,  I  feel  that  his  pure  soul  has  become 
another  link  in  the  chain  which  draws  us  to  that  God 
whose  faithful  servant  he  was  while  on  earth.  I  will  treas- 
ure as  precious  jewels  the  recollection  of  his  good  deeds  and 
pure  precepts,  and  revere  his  memory  as  that  of  the  best 
man  I  ever  knew." 

"  I  knew  James  well.  I  knew  that  he  had  the  best  heart 
in  the  world,  that  he  was  kind  and  friendly  to  all,  and  that 
he  loved  to  see  every  body  happy.  He  always  did  his  duty 
towards  every  body.  How  deeply  am  I  indebted  to  him  for 
his  acquaintance  and  friendship  !  "  —  J.  APPLETON  JEWETT, 
Boston,  Mass, 

"  I  can  truly  say  I  have  never  lost  any  friend  who  seemed 
to  me  so  great  a  loss,  and  I  feel,  as  all  those  must  who  have 
been  accustomed  to  lean  on  him,  that  no  one  can  ever  take 
the  place  he  has  left  vacant." 

"  In  private  intercourse,  I  do  not  think  any  thing  was  more 
striking  in  Mr.  Perkins  than  his  perfect  truth.  I  am  cer- 
tain that  I  never  felt  the  power  of  truth,  or  the  necessity  of 
being  true,  so  much  as  I  did  in  his  presence.  I  do  not  mean 
of  being  true  in  general,  but  in  every  word  and  act ;  and  I 
never  felt  so  reproached  for  the  careless  statements  I  made, 
even  in  little  things,  as  I  did  from  his  severe  and  direct  ques- 
tionings. There  was  nothing  he  seemed  to  consider  too 
unimportant  to  be  repeated,  if  at  all,  with  the  most  perfect 
exactness  and  the  strictest  conformity  to  facts.  And  though 
he  mingled  so  little  with  society,  I  believe  it  is  through  his 
influence  that  there  is  so  much  simplicity  and  heartiness  in 
the  relations  in  which  nearly  all  his  acquaintances  stand 
in  towards  each  other  here.  There  is  certainly  in  this  circle 
in  Cincinnati  less  of  compliment,  form,  pretension,  and  insin- 
cerity than  in  any  circle  I  have  ever  met.  And  I  believe 
very  much  of  it  is  owing  indirectly  to  him." 


LIFE    OF    JA.MES    H.    PERKINS. 

"  It  was  but  a  short  time  since,  that  I  found,  in  looking 
over  a  portfolio,  an  original  piece  of  James's  in  his  own 
handwriting.  It  was  a  farewell,  written  in  the  easy  haste 
for  which  he  was  so  remarkable.  He  had  not  the  trouble  to 
compose,  he  tliovght  poetry.  I  think  it  is  this  truthful  spirit 
that  gives  such  a  simple  earnestness  to  all  he  has  written  ; 
he  did  not  write  to  be  read,  but  to  give  his  feelings  utterance. 
He  had  an  almost  morbid  fear  of  display,  and  an  integrity 
which  was  carried  even  into  his  imagination  ;  he  could  not 
imagine  falsehood,  and  it  always  appeared  to  me  that  his 
ideals  had  spiritual  existence.  TRUTH  formed  the  main- 
spring of  his  character,  and  controlled  an  unusually  devel- 
oped ideality.  It  was  this  that  made  his  speculations  on  the 
spiritual  world  so  interesting  to  me.  I  have  listened  to  him 
by  the  hour,  and  looked  at  the  inspired  expression  of  his 
face,  until  I  could  almost  believe  that  faith  was  turned  into 
vision." 


NEW    ENGLAND. 


O,  TELL  me  not  't  is  Fancy's  voice 

That  whispers  in  my  ear ; 
For  I  know  't  is  Nature's  holy  tone 

That  breathes  in  silence  here. 
From  the  silence  of  my  bosom 

It  bids  me  cease  to  roam, 
And  to  seek  once  more  the  rock-girt  shore, 

And  the  green  fields  of  my  home. 

Why  do  I  love  that  rocky  land, 

And  that  inclement  sky  ? 
I  know  alone  I  love  it, 

But  ask,  and  care,  not  why. 
As  round  my  friends  my  feelings  twine, 

So  round  my  native  shore  ; 
God  placed  the  instinct  in  my  heart, 

And  I  seek  to  know  no  more. 

Then  howl,  ye  thunder-tempests, 

For  ye  lull  my  soul  to  sleep  ; 
And  in  dreams  I  hear  the  ocean-wind, 

And  the  surges  of  the  deep. 


324  NEW    ENGLAND. 

Again  thn  clouds  of  winter 

Sweep  o'er  the  summer  sky, 
And  the  ground  rings  hard  beneath  my  tread, 

And  the  snow  comes  drifting  by. 

My  fathers'  bones,  New  England, 

Sleep  in  thy  hallowed  ground  ; 
My  living  kin,  New  England, 

In  thy  shady  paths  are  found  ; 
And  though  my  body  dwelleth  here, 

And  my  weary  feet  here  roam, 
My  spirit  and  my  hopes  are  still 

In  thee,  my  own  loved  home. 


1835. 


325 


TO    A    LADY, 

WHO    WONDERED    WHY    SHE    WAS    LOVED. 

IT  is  not  learning's  borrowed  gleam, 
It  is  not  beauty's  holier  light, 

It  is  not  wealth,  that  makes  thee  seem 
So  lovely  in  our  sight. 

The  worth  may  leave  Potosi's  ore, 
Golconda's  diamond  lose  its  sheen, 

But  thine  is  the  exhaustless  store 
Of  innocence  serene. 

The  beauty  of  the  eye  must  fade, 
The  beauty  of  the  cheek  decay, 

But  from  thy  spirit,  guileless  maid, 
No  charm  shall  pass  away. 

The  learning  of  the  gifted  mind, 
Its  gathered  wisdom,  may  depart, 

But  in  thy  ignorance  I  find 
The  wisdom  of  the  heart. 

And  this  nor  earthly  change  or  ill, 

Nor  time,  nor  malady,  can  blight  ; 
And  this  it  is  that  makes  thee  still 

So  lovely  in  our  sight. 
1833. 
VOL.  i.  28 


326 


SONG. 


O,  MERRY,  merry  be  the  day, 

And  bright  the  star  of  even  ; 
For  't  is  our  duty  to  be  gay, 
And  tread  in  holy  joy  our  way  ; 

Grief  never  came  from  Heaven, 

My  love, 
It  never  came  from  Heaven. 

Then  let  us  not,  though  woes  betide, 
Complain  of  Fortune's  spite,  love  ; 
As  rock-encircled  trees  combine, 
And  nearer  grow,  and  closer  twine, 
So  let  our  hearts  unite, 
My  love, 
So  let  our  hearts  unite. 

Though  poortith  grim  should  smile  on  me, 

It  shall  not  make  me  wince,  love  ; 
Your  ruddy  cheek  and  laughing  e'e,  — 
They  are  a  store  of  wealth  to  me 
That  might  content  a  prince, 

My  love, 
That  might  content  a  prince. 


SONG.  327 

O,  may  God  bless  that  laughing  e'e, 

Preserve  that  happy  look,  love  ; 
For  there  I  read  his  gracious  will, 
His  mercy  and  his  kindness  still, 
As  in  a  written  book, 

My  love, 
As  in  a  written  book. 

And  what  though  friends  be  often  cold, 

And  sometimes  false  and  faithless? 
Though  eyes  we  loved  be  closed  in  death, 
And  hushed  the  music  of  the  breath, 
Yet  there  be  true  hearts  nathless, 

Love, 
O,  there  be  true  hearts  nathless ! 

There  's  many  a  cheek  will  brighter  glow, 

And  many  a  breast  beat  higher, 
At  our  approach  ;  and  when  we  die, 
Believe  me,  there  is  many  an  eye 
Will  weep  above  our  pyre, 

My  love, 
Will  weep  above  our  pyre. 

And  though  the  circle  here  be  small 

Of  heartily  approved  ones, 
There  is  a  home  beyond  the  skies, 
Where  vice  shall  sink  and  virtue  rise, 
Till  all  become  the  loved  ones, 

Love, 
Till  all  become  the  loved  ones. 

Then  let  your  eye  be  laughing  still, 
And  cloudless  be  your  brow  ; 


328  SONG. 

For  in  that  better  world  above 
O,  many  myriads  shall  we  love, 

As  one  another  now, 

My  love, 

As  one  another  now. 


329 


CHANGE    NOT. 


BE  ever  thus ;  though  years  must  roll, 
And  add  their  wrinkles  to  thy  cheek, 

Still  let  thy  ever-youthful  soul 

In  word  and  action  live  and  speak. 

Unknowing  of  a  wicked  thought, 

Untouched  by  any  act  of  sin, 
And  all  ungoverned  and  untaught, 

Save  by  the  monitor  within, 
Thou  shalt  know  nothing  of  the  things 
That  breed  earth's  countless  quarrellings  ; 
Yet  of  the  learning  of  the  sage, 
The  poet's  rhyme,  the  scholar's  page, 
All  that  is  pure  and  true  shall  be 
A  gift  of  instinct  unto  thee  ; 
And  so,  as  guileless  and  as  wild, 
Thou  shalt  live  on,  and  die,  a  child. 

When  merry  Spring,  with  crown  of  flowers, 
Comes  dancing  through  the  budding  bowers, 
Thy  laughing  eye  and  voice  of  song 
Shall  swell  the  chorus  of  her  throng  ; 
28* 


330  CHANGE    NOT. 

And  though  the  birds  be  all  about, 
And  many  a  bee  upon  the  wing, 

Thy  jocund  tone  shall  mark  thce  out, 
The  very  spirit  of  the  spring. 

And  when  the  days  of  winter  come, 
And  all  is  tempest,  all  is  gloom, 
Thy  sunny  cheek  and  sunny  eye 
Shall  chase  that  tempest  from  the  sky  ; 
And  though  in  ice  be  bound  the  earth, 
Thy  loving  hope  and  careless  rnirth 
Shall  make  it  summer  round  our  hearth. 

Then  ever,  ever,  be  the  same, 
As  pure,  as  thoughtless,  and  as  wild,  — 
A  woman,  yet  a  little  child  ; 

For  thus  from  God  you  came. 


331 


POVERTY  AND  KNOWLEDGE 


AH,  dearest,  we  are  young  and  strong, 
With  ready  heart  and  ready  will 

To  tread  the  world's  bright  paths  along  ; 
But  poverty  is  stronger  still. 

Yet,  my  dear  wife,  there  is  a  might 
That  may  bid  poverty  defiance,  — 

The  might  of  knowledge  ;  from  this  night 
Let  us  on  her  put  our  reliance. 

Armed  with  her  sceptre,  to  an  hour 

We  may  condense  whole  years  and  ages  ; 

Bid  the  departed,  by  her  power, 

Arise,  and  talk  with  seers  and  sages. 

Her  word,  to  teach  us,  may  bid  stop 
The  noonday  sun  ;  yea,  she  is  able 

To  make  an  ocean  of  a  drop, 

Or  spread  a  kingdom  on  our  table. 

In  her  great  name  we  need  but  call 

Scott,  Schiller,  Shakspeare,  and,  behold  ! 


POVERTY    AND    KNOWLEDGE. 

The  suffering  Mary  smiles  on  all, 
And  FalstalF  riots  as  of  old. 

Then,  wherefore  should  we  leave  this  hearth. 

Our  books,  and  all  our  pleasant  labors, 
If  we  can  have  the  whole  round  earth, 

And  still  retain  our  home  and  neighbours  .- 

Why  wish  to  roam  in  other  lands  ? 

Or  mourn  that  poverty  hath  bound  us  ? 
We  have  our  hearts,  our  heads,  our  hands, 

Enough  to  live  on,  —  friends  around  us,  — 

And,  more  than  all,  have  hope  and  love. 

Ah,  dearest,  while  those  last,  be  sure 
That,  if  there  be  a  God  above, 

We  arc  not  and  cannot  be  poor  ! 


333 


HOME. 


No,  it  is  not  a  poet's  dream, 

It  does  not  live  in  thought  alone  ; 

For  here,  by  Housatonic's  stream, 
Home,  as  she  wrote  of  it,  is  known. 

Here,  where  round  every  rock  and  peak 
Clings  some  tradition  dim  and  hoary, 

And  every  valley  seems  to  speak 
Of  the  lost  Indian's  pride  and  glory  ; 

Where  the  pure  mists  long  linger  nigh, 
Like  guardian  Naiads  to  the  rills, 

And  the  vast  shades  flit  silently, 
As  giant  spectres,  o'er  the  hills ; 

Where  neither  slaves  nor  nobles  bend, 
But  all  in  love  aid  one  another ; 

Where  every  stranger  is  a  friend, 
And  every  honest  man  a  brother  ; 

Where  all  gives  proof  of  woman's  power, 
The  might  of  nature,  not  of  art ; 


,'i,'{  t  HOME. 

And  day  l>v  day,  and  hour  by  hour 
Heart  clingeth  closer  still  to  heart  ;  — 

Here  is  a  home,  a  IIOMK  in  truth,  — 
One  that  can  chase  away  the  ills 

Of  age,  and  lend  new  joy  to  youth, — 
A  holy  home  among  the  hills. 

Here  may  we  see  a  stronger  bond 
Than  interest,  ambition,  pelf, 

Which,  reaching  to  the  world  beyond, 
Still  makes  a  world  within  itself. 

For  though  to  few  the  power  is  given 
To  guide,  to  govern,  or  to  move, 

Yet  unto  each  all-bounteous  Heaven 
Holds  out  the  God-like  power  to  love. 

Long  may  that  flame  within  us  burn, 
As  here  each  bounding  heart  it  fills, 

Although  we  never  should  return 

To  this  sweet  home  among  the  hills. 

Siockbridgf,  August,  ItsJG. 


335 


THE    MOTHER    AND    CHILD 


IT  was  a  mother  and  her  child  ; 

She  hushed  him  with  a  lullaby, 
And  as  she  sung  he  smiled. 
Her  hair  lay  carelessly  and  wild 

Upon  a  sun-burnt  brow  ; 
But  there  was  beauty  in  her  eye,  — 

It  lives,  it  burns  before  me  now, — 
That  might  all  time  and  change  defy  ;  - 
Such  beauty  is  not  born  to  die. 

"  Sleep,  my  fatherless  !  sleep,  sleep  !  " 

Thus  she  sung  ; 

"  Be  thy  slumbers  sweet  and  deep  ; 
While  the  shades  of  evening  creep 

From  the  forest-boughs  among, 
And  the  dews  the  meadows  steep,  — 

Sleep,  O,  sleep  ! 
Close,  close  that  little  hand, 

And  that  too  watchful  eye  ; 
And,  in  slumbers  soft  and  bland, 

Dream  of  days  gone  by. 


336  THE    MOTHER    AND    CHILD. 

Sleep,  my  orphan,  sleep  ! 
While  the  moon,  so  mild, 
Doth  her  vigils  keep  ; 
And  the  shadows  sweep, 
And  the  silent  night  falls  deep 

O'er  the  wild  ; 
Sleep,  my  little  child, 
Sleep,  O,  sleep  !  " 

'T  was  nothing,  yet  in  every  note 

That  mother  breathed  above  her  young, 
More  heavenly  music  seemed  to  float 
Than  ever  gifted  Mozart  wrote, 
Than  Pasta  ever  sung. 


337 


TO    A    CHILL). 


MY  little  friend,  I  love  to  trace 
Those  lines  of  laughter  in  thy  face, 
Which  seems  to  be  the  dwelling-place 

Of  all  that  's  sweet, 
And  bend  with  pride  to  thy  embrace, 

Whene'er  we  meet. 

For  though  the  beauty  of  the  flower, 

Or  of  the  sky  at  sunset  hour, 

Or  when  the  threatening  tempests  lower, 

May  be  divine, 
Yet  unto  me  but  weak  their  power 

Compared  with  thine. 

And  though  the  ocean's  waves,  which  roll 
From  the  equator  to  the  pole, 
May  tell  us  of  a  God's  control, 

Yet  poor  they  be, 
When  measured  by  the  living  soul 

Which  burns  in  thee. 

And  of  strange  cities  we  are  told, 
That  were  in  the  dim  days  of  old  ; 
VOL.  i.  29 


338  TO    A    CHILD. 

Of  thrones  of  ivory  and  of  gold 

By  jewels  hid, 
And  temples  of  gigantic  mould, 

And  pyramid. 

But  I  would  brave  a  hundred  toils 
To  watch  thy  little  ways  and  wiles, 
And  bathe  my  spirit  in  thy  smiles, 

And  hear  thy  call, 
Rather  than  walk  a  dozen  miles 

To  see  them  all. 

For  thou,  when  folly  hath  beguiled, 
Or  selfishness  or  sense  defiled,  — 
Thou  meetest  me,  my  little  child, 

Fresh  with  my  stain  ; 
But  when  upon  me  thou  hast  smiled, 

I  'm  pure  again, 

O,  then  by  thee  I  could  be  led, 

With  joy,  life's  humblest  walks  to  tread 

The  lowliest  roof,  the  hardest  bed, 

Were  all  I  'd  ask  ; 
To  raise  my  heart  above  my  head 

Should  be  my  task. 

W  hat,  then,  to  me  the  diamond  stone, 
And  what  the  gem-encircled  zone, 
And  what  the  harp's  bewildering  tone  ? 

Thine  azure  eye, 
Thy  ruddy  cheek  and  laugh,  alone 

Would  satisfy. 


TO    A    CHILD.  339 


And  though  all  fortune  were  denied, 
I  'd  struggle  still  against  the  tide, 
Nor  pray  for  any  wealth  beside, 

If  I  could  be 
The  parent,  governor,  and  guide 

Of  one  like  thee. 


NOVEMBER    AND    MAY. 


ix  months  ago,  my  little  friend, 
The  trees  were  bare  and  dark  the  ground  ; 
November's  sky  did  o'er  us  bend, 
November's  breezes  whistled  round. 

But  now  the  flowers  are  bright  about  us, 
The  red-bird  pours  his  liquid  lay, 

And  all  within  and  all  without  us, 

As  with  one  voice,  proclaim  the  May. 

And  as  it  chanced,  a  little  girl 
I  met  with,  just  six  months  ago  ; 

Her  brown  hair  fell  in  many  a  curl 
Round  features  that  I  did  not  know. 

Our  path,  so  far,  had  been  apart, 

And  though  the  maiden  spoke  and  smiled, 
It  was  November  in  my  heart 

Toward  that  little,  unknown  child. 

Half  of  the  year  has  passed  away, 
She  that  I  met  with  must  depart  ; 


NOVEMBER    AND    MAY.  341 

But  now,  believe  me,  it  is  May, 
And  not  November,  in  my  heart. 

Her  warm  affection,  modest  bearing, 

Her  words,  her  actions  stamped  with  truth, 

Her  thoughtful  conduct,  calm,  yet  sharing 
The  frolic  temper  due  to  youth,  — 

These,  like  the  warm  spring  days,  have  smiled 

On  feelings  all  too  torpid  yet, 
And  make  me  place  that  unknown  child 

With  those  I  shall  not  soon  forget. 

Her  welfare  and  her  spirit's  growth, 
Her  victory  o'er  the  might  of  passion, 

Her  freedom  from  ennui  and  sloth, 
Her  safety  from  the  snares  of  fashion. 

Shall  be  my  prayer  when  far  away  ; 

And  if  she  act  but  well  her  part, 
0,  she  will  fill  with  endless  May 

Not  mine  alone,  but  many  a  heart. 


342 


TRUTH. 

WRITTEN    IN    A    PORTFOLIO. 

BE  TRUTH  my  motto  ever  !     Thou 
That  bendest  o'er  my  pages  now, 
Wouldst  thou  but  write  a  sentence  here, 
Be  every  line  and  word  sincere. 

Whether  it  be  to  those  who  mourn 

For  friends  departed,  kindred  gone, 

Or  to  the  jocund  and  the  gay, 

Who  cannot  think  friends  pass  away, — 

Whether  it  be  the  gravest  strain 

That  ever  racked  a  thoughtful  brain, 

Or  of  a  style  that  would  beguile 

All  thought,  and  raise  the  dimpling  smile, 

Write  when  you  may  and  what  you  will, 

Of  grave  or  gay,  of  good  or  ill, 

O,  be  that  word  my  motto  still ! 

Here,  to  those  gone,  with  artless  art 
Pour  the  full  fountains  of  the  heart ; 
Obey  that  prompter  deep  within, 
That  feels  concealment  half  a  sin  ; 
Speak  out,  —  and  others  then  to  you 
Will  speak  as  warmly  and  as  true. 


TRUTH. 

Or  should  there  burn  a  holier  fire 
Than  ever  Friendship  can  inspire,  — 
Should  mighty  Love  above  me  deign 
To  hover  on  his  azure  wing, 
And  prompt  the  letter  or  the  strain 
That  only  lovers  write  or  sing, — 
Though  joy-bewildered,  hope-amazed, 
Be  not  that  guiding  word  erased. 

And  after  I  am  gone,  O,  still 
To  mould  thy  passion,  guide  thy  will, 
To  point  thy  path,  sustain  thy  strength, 
And  lead  thee  to  thy  rest  at  length, 
In  womanhood  and  age,  as  youth, 
Be  thy  firm  trust,  thy  motto,  TRUTH. 

1836. 


344 


TO    ONE    FAR    AWAY. 


I  SOMETI3IES  feel  melancholy  when  I  think  of  the  travel- 
ler's lot ;  —  forming  friendships  only  to  be  broken  ;  becoming 
a  member  of  families,  in  which  he  is  scarce  domiciled  when 
he  is  once  more  called  to  tear  himself  away;  a  plant  for 
ever  taking  root,  and  for  ever  lacerated  by  transplantation. 
And  yet  there  is  another  view  of  the  matter.  The  friend- 
ships which  the  traveller  forms  need  not  perish,  —  nay, 
they  will  not ;  the  mountains  may  crumble,  and  the  valleys 
become  filled,  but  true  affection  is  imperishable.  Love  is 
not  a  plant  which,  lacerated  by  separation,  dies ;  it  is  a  seed 
which  sinks  into  our  spirits,  and  may  remain  hid  there  for 
ages,  but  will  one  day  spring  up,  and  from  its  tiny  envelope 
send  forth  a  Tree  of  Life. 

A  few  years  since,  I  used  to  doubt  if  we  should  recognize 
hereafter  those  to  whom  we  are  attached  here,  because,  I 
said,  our  attachments  die  out  even  on  earth ;  a  year  ago  I 
was  wrapped  up  in  one  on  whom  I  should  now  look  almost 
with  indifference,  for  during  that  year  we  have  not  met.  A 
few  years  have  revealed  to  me  that  my  former  view  was  the 
result  of  my  former  blindness,  and  that  blindness  the  inev- 
itable consequence  of  my  unworthiness  ;  I  now  see  that  the 
purer  and  truer  I  become,  arid  the  freer  from  selfishness  I 
am,  the  more  permanent  are  my  attachments,  and  the  less 
power  have  time  and  space  over  them.  To  the  really  pure 
spirit  I  cannot  doubt  that  there  is  given  a  grasp  which  enables 


TO    ONE    FAR    AWAY.  345 

it,  while  loving  many,  to  love  each  as  deeply  as  we  can  love 
but  one. 

I  would  look  forward,  then,  with  entire  trust  to  the  time 
when,  free,  not  from  this  body  only,  but  also  from  the 
inner  and  grosser  body  of  spiritual  death,  I  may  stand  con- 
nected intimately  with  a  myriad  of  spirits,  —  connected  by 
bonds  which  the  passing  of  ages  shall  not  loosen,  nor  the 
width  of  the  universe  weaken.  And  I  would  believe,  more- 
over, that  the  seeds  of  those  myriad  connections  are  now 
being  planted  in  my  breast  :  from  passing  acquaintances, 
from  momentary  meetings,  from  slight  intimacies,  from 
all  knowledge  of  noble,  just,  devoted  qualities,  —  I  would 
believe  that  I  am  receiving  those  seeds. 

The  traveller's  lot,  then,  is  not  wholly  mournful  :  he  is 
not  a  former  of  fruitless  attachments,  and  does  not  plant  in 
vain.  He  plants,  as  we  all  do  by  every  act  and  feeling,  for 
eternity ;  and  if  he  plant  pure  affections,  it  is  good  seed, 
and  will  bring  him  a  rich  harvest. 

In  connection  with  these  thoughts,  let  me  give  you  some 
verses  written  in  reference  to  one  now  far  away  :  — 

Late  to  our  town  there  came  a  maid, 

A  noble  woman,  true  and  pure, 
Who,  in  the  little  while  she  stayed, 

Wrought  works  that  will  endure. 

It  was  not  any  thing  she  said, — 

It  was  not  any  thing  she  did  ; 
It  was  the  movement  of  her  head,  — 

The  lifting  of  her  lid, — 

Her  little  motions  when  she  spoke,  — 
The  presence  of  an  upright  soul, — 

The  living  light  that  from  her  broke,  — 
It  was  the  perfect  whole  : 


346  TO    ONE    FAR    AWAY. 

We  saw  it  in  her  floating  hair, 
We  saw  it  in  her  laughing  eye  ; 

For  every  look  and  feature  there 
Wrought  works  that  cannot  die. 

For  she  to  many  spirits  gave 

A  reverence  for  the  true,  the  pure, 

The  perfect,  —  that  has  power  to  save, 
And  make  the  doubting  sure. 

She  passed ;  she  went  to  other  lands  ; 

She  knew  not  of  the  work  she  did  : 
The  wondrous  product  of  her  hands 

From  her  is  ever  hid. 

For  ever,  did  I  say  ?     O,  no  ! 

The  time  must  come  when  she  will  look 
Upon  her  pilgrimage  below, 

And  find  it  in  God's  Book  :  — 

That  as  she  trod  her  path  aright, 

Power  from  her  very  garments  stole  ; 

For  such  is  the  mysterious  might 
God  grants  the  upright  soul. 

A  deed,  a  word,  our  careless  rest, 
A  simple  thought,  a  common  feeling, 

If  He  be  present  in  the  breast, 
lias  from  Him  powers  of  healing. 

Go,  maiden,  with  thy  golden  tresses, 

Thine  azure  eye,  and  changing  cheek,  - 

Go,  and  forget  the  one  who  blesses 
Thy  presence  through  that  week. 


TO    ONE    FAR    AWAY. 


Forget  him  :  he  will  not  forget, 

But  strive  to  live,  and  testify 
Thy  goodness,  when  Earth's  sun  has  set, 

And  Time  itself  rolled  bv. 


1839. 


348 


ANGEL    MEETINGS. 


THERE  is  a  faith  in  Eastern  lands, 

That,  when  true  friends  are  torn  apart, 

Their  angels  who  are  here  below, 

To  guard  them  through  this  world  of  woe, 

Do  walk  together  still ;  and  so 
Heart  communes  still  with  heart. 

In  that  belief  I  would  believe, 
Upon  that  holy  faith  would  lean, 

And  thus  still  bow  before  thy  shrine, 
Still  gaze  upon  thy  light  divine, 

And  still  my  spirit  learn  of  thine, 
Though  mountains  rise  between. 

1836. 


349 


A    COUNTRY    CLERGYMAN. 

FRAGMENT    OF    A    LETTER   TO    A    STUDENT    OF    DIVINITY. 

I  SEE  you  in  some  country  town 
On  snug  four  hundred  settled  down, 
And  saving  from  your  salary 
What  little  surplus  there  may  be, 
To  buy  your  wife  a  Christmas  gown. 

I  see  you  through  the  rain,  the  snow, 
Heat,  cold,  and  mud,  unwearied  go 
To  visit  every  home  of  woe, 

Sustain  each  drooping  head  ; 
Or  when  the  mortal  lies  below, 

Weep  o'er  the  humble  dead. 

I  see  the  fire ;  the  cottage  room, 
Now  all  alight,  and  now  all  gloom, 

As  rise  the  flames  or  fall ; 
The  simple  meal ;  the  honeycomb  ; 
The  bread  and  butter,  made  at  home;  — 

And  you  the  lord  of  all. 

I  see  the  circle  gather  round, 

I  hear  the  silence  so  profound, 

As  bending,  reverent,  to  the  ground, 

You  pour  the  living  prayer ;  — 
VOL.  i.  30 


350  A    COUNTRY    CLERGYMAN. 

I  see  to  rest  your  prattlers  led, 

With  swimming  eyes,  back-turning  head  ; 

And  when  another  hour  is  fled, 

At  nature's  call,  you  haste  to  bed, 

And  I  am  with  you  there  ;  — 
In  other  scenes  and  spheres  you  seem, 
Of  wider  usefulness  you  dream, 

And  thirst  for  nobler  care. 

In  unseen  worlds  far,  far  away, 
Your  accents  pour  increasing  day, 

And  still  chaotic  strife  ; 
Your  fingers  mould  the  plastic  clay,  — 

You  breathe  the  breath  of  life. 

The  mists  that  linger  now  within  — 
Passion,  and  ignorance,  and  sin  — 

Are  past ;  another  birth 
Empowers  you,  with  a  deeper  joy, 
To  make  your  every  day's  employ 

The  miracles  of  earth. 

Light,  from  the  Fountain  of  all  light, 
Has  reached  thy  blinded  spirit's  sight, 

Broke  through  the  earthly  clods  ; 
The  hope,  the  instinct  of  thy  soul 
Is  satisfied,  —  to  grasp  the  whole, 
To  gain  all  knowledge,  all  control, 

And  be,  indeed,  like  God. 


351 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  CHILD. 


STAND  back,  uncovered  stand,  for  lo  ! 

The  parents  who  have  lost  their  child 
Bow  to  the  majesty  of  woe  ! 

He  came,  a  herald  from  above,  — 
Pure  from  his  God  he  came  to  them, 

Teaching  new  duties,  deeper  love  ; 
And,  like  the  boy  of  Bethlehem, 

He  grew  in  stature  and  in  grace. 

From  the  sweet  spirit  of  his  face 

They  learned  a  new,  more  heavenly  joy, 
And  were  the  better  for  their  boy. 

But  God  hath  taken  whom  he  gave, 
Recalled  the  messenger  he  sent ; 

And  now  beside  the  infant's  grave 
The  spirit  of  the  strong  is  bent. 

But  though  the  tears  must  flow,  the  heart 
Ache  with  a  vacant,  strange  distress,  — 

Ye  did  not  from  your  infant  part 

When  his  clear  eye  grew  meaningless. 

That  eye  is  beaming  still,  and  still 
Upon  his  Father's  errand  he, 


352  ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A    YOUNG    CHILD. 

Your  own  dear,  bright,  unearthly  boy, 
Worketh  the  kind,  mysterious  will, 

And  from  this  fount  of  bitter  grief 
Will  bring  a  stream  of  joy  ;  — 

O,  may  this  be  your  faith  and  your  relief! 

Then  will  the  world  be  full  of  him  ;  the  sky, 

With  all  its  placid  myriads,  to  your  eye 

Will  tell  of  him  ;  the  wind  will  breathe  his  tone  ; 
And  slumbering  in  the  midnight,  they  alone, 

Your  Father  and  your  child,  will  hover  nigh. 
Believe  in  him,  behold  him  everywhere, 
And  sin  will  die  within  you,  —  earthly  care 

Fall  to  its  earth,  —  and  heavenward,  side  by  side, 

Ye  shall  go  up  beyond  this  realm  of  storms, 

Quick  and  more  quick,  till,  welcomed  there  above, 
His  voice  shall  bid  you,  in  the  might  of  love, 

Lay  down  these  weeds  of  earth,  and  wear  your  native 
forms. 


353 


TASSO    IN    PRISON. 


YES,  I  am  chained  :   these  dark  and  dreary  walls 

Must  henceforth  my  horizon  be  ;  no  light 
Will  ever  come  to  cheer  my  aching  balls, 
Save  't  is  the  jailer's  torch,  flashing  along 

The  firm-ribbed  archway,  as  he  comes  at  night 
To  deal  me  out  my  pittance.     I  was  strong,  — 
Strong  once  in  mind  and  frame  ;  't  is  gone,  and  now 
I  have  no  power  ;  't  is  gone,  I  know  not  how, 
It  cannot  be  that  servitude  hath  might 
To  rob  the  spirit  of  its  heaven-born  flight, 

And  plunge  the  mind  in  an  eternal  night  ? 
Let  me  not  think  of  such  things,  for  my  brain 

Is  weak,  and  when  I  think,  upon  my  sight 
Those  chilling  visions  all  crowd  back  again, 
As  to  the  murderer's  eye  the  spirits  of  the  slain. 

Yes,  I  am  chained  :  the  mountain  stream  no  more 
Will  bear  me  on  its  bosom  ;  ne'er  again 

Shall  I  go  down  at  evening  to  the  shore, 

To  listen  to  the  chafed  ocean's  roar; 

Nor  ever  climb  the  mottled  hill-side,  when 

The  thunder-clouds  are  gathering  ;  nor  repose 
By  the  calm  lake  at  evening,  when  the  earth 
30* 


354  TASSO    IN    PRISON. 

Is  hushed,  to  hear  that  music  from  above 

Which  wins  the  sorrowing  from  his  want  and  woes, 

In  the  desponding  breeds  a  holy  mirth, 
And  in  the  hating  breast  calls  forth  a  fount  of  love. 

Yes,  I  am  chained  ;  but  are  not  all  men  so  ? 

Are  they  not  chains,  these  passions  frail,  yet  foul  ? 
Is  not  the  body  we  are  wedded  to 

A  clog  upon  the  still  upspringing  soul? 
Then  am  I  freer  than  my  tyrant  lord, 
For  I  have  crushed  this  body,  —  I  have  poured 
My  spirit  into  that  which  I  adored, — 

My  Mother  Nature  ;  fettered,  I  have  broke 
Free  from  the  earthly  bonds,  and  foul  desires, 

Which  cling  around  us,  as  the  parasite 
Clings  to  and  crushes  in  its  poisonous  spires 

The  strength  and  beauty  of  the  heavenward  oak. 
I  am  a  freeman  ;  I  can  take  my  flight 

With  the  Great  Spirit  to  the  realms  above, 
And  ride  upon  the  whirlwind  ;  I  am  part 

And  portion  of  Thee,  Author  of  all  love  ; 
I  shall  be  present  wheresoe'er  Thou  art ;  — 

In  the  far  west  at  sunset ;  on  the  wave 
When  the  storm  waketh  ;  in  the  bursting  bud, 
The  flower,  the  withering  leaf,  the  angry  flood  ; 
The  birth,  the  bridal,  and  the  field  of  blood  ; 

In  life  and  death,  —  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

1835. 


355 


MARQUETTE.* 


i. 

SINK  to  my  heart,  bright  evening  skies  ! 

Ye  waves  that  round  me  roll, 
\Vith  all  your  golden,  crimson  dyes, 

Sink  deep  into  my  soul ! 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars,  —  that  come 

So  silently  at  even, 
To  make  this  world  awhile  your  home, 

And  bring  us  nearer  heaven, — 
Speak  to  my  spirit's  listening  ear 

With  your  calm  tones  of  beauty, 
And  to  my  darkened  mind  make  clear 

My  errors  and  my  duty. 

ii. 

Speak  to  my  soul  of  those  who  went 

Across  this  stormy  lake, 
On  deeds  of  mercy  ever  bent 

For  the  poor  Indian's  sake. 

*  Composed   on    Lake    Michigan,  by  the  river    where   Marquette 
died.     See  Vol.  II.  p.  133. 


•S56  MARQUETTE. 

They  looked  to  all  of  you,  and  each 

Leant  smiling  from  above, 
And  taught  the  Jesuit  how  to  teach 

The  omnipotence  of  love. 
You  gave  the  apostolic  tone 

To  Mnrquctte's  guileless  soul, 
Whose  life  and  labors  shall  be  known 

Long  as  these  waters  roll. 
To  him  the  little  Indian  child 

Fearless  and  trustful  came, 
Curbed  for  a  time  his  temper  wild, 

And  hid  his  heart  of  flame. 
With  gentle  voice  and  gentle  look, 

Sweet  evening-star,  like  thine, 
That  heart  the  missionary  took 

From  ofT  the  war-god's  shrine, 
And  laid  it  on  the  Holy  Book 

Before  the  Man  Divine. 
The  blood  stained  demons  saw  with  griet 

O 

Far  from  their  magic  ring, 
Around  their  now  converted  chief, 

The  tribe  come  gathering. 
Marquette's  belief  was  their  belief, 

And  Jesus  was  their  king. 
Fierce  passions'  late  resistless  drift 

Drives  now  no  longer  by; 
'T  is  rendered  powerless  by  the  gift 

Of  Heaven-fed  charity. 

in. 
Speak  to  my  heart,  ye  stars,  and  tell 

How,  on  yon  distant  shore, 
The  world-worn  Jesuit  bade  farewell 

To  those  that  rowed  him  o'er; 


MARQOETTE. 

Told  them  to  sit  and  wait  him  there, 

And  break  their  daily  food, 
While  he  to  his  accustomed  prayer 

Retired  within  the  wood  ; 
And  how  they  saw  the  day  go  round, 

Wondering  he  came  not  yet, 
Then  sought  him  anxiously,  and  found, 

Not  the  kind,  cairn  Marquette, — 
He  silently  had  passed  away,  — 

But  on  the  greensward  there, 
Before  the  crucifix,  his  clay 

Still  kneeling,  as  in  prayer. 

IV. 

Nor  let  me  as  a  fable  deem, 

Told  by  some  artful  knave, 
The  legend,  that  the  lonely  stream, 

By  which  they  dug  his  grave, 
When  wintry  torrents  from  above 

Swept  with  resistless  force, 
Knew  and  revered  the  man  of  love, 

And  changed  its  rapid  course, 
And  left  the  low,  sepulchral  mound 

Uninjured  by  its  side, 
And  spared  the  consecrated  ground 

Where  he  had  knelt  and  died. 
Nor  ever  let  my  weak  mind  rail 

At  the  poor  Indian, 
Who,  when  the  fierce  northwestern  gale 

Swept  o'er  Lake  Michigan, 
In  the  last  hour  of  deepest  dread 

Knew  of  one  resource  yet, 
And  stilled  the  thunder  overhead 

By  calling  on  Marquette. 


357 


858  3IARQUETTE. 

V. 

Sink  to  my  heart,  sweet  evening  skies ! 

Ye  darkening  waves  that  roll 
Around  me,  —  ye  departing  dyes, — 

Sink  to  my  inmost  soul ! 
Teach  to  my  heart  of  hearts  that  fact, 

Unknown,  though  known  so  well, 
That  in  each  feeling,  act,  and  thought, 

God  works  by  miracle. 
And  ye,  soft-footed  stars  !  that  come 

So  quietly  at  even, 
Teach  me  to  use  this  world,  my  home, 

So  as  to  make  it  heaven. 

August  24,  1846. 


359 


TO   A    FLOWER. 


FAIR  flower,  I  would  not  rashly  tread 
Into  the  dust  thine  humble  head  ; 
I  would  not,  with  tyrannic  power, 
Rob  thine  existence  of  an  hour, 
Though  that  existence  unto  me 
Is  wrapt  in  total  mystery. 
Thou  hast  no  tongue  nor  power  to  tell 
The  secret  so  inscrutable 

To  human  eye, 

Why  'tis  thou  art ;  we  know  full  well, 
That  in  a  little  while  thy  bell 

Will  droop  and  die  ; 
And  more  than  that  we  cannot  know 
Of  countless  beings  here  below. 
The  compass  is  of  such  extent, 
In  nature's  mystic  instrument, 

The  whole  man  may  not  see  ; 
And  for  that  reason  he  should  prize 
The  meanest  thing,  nor  aught  despise, 

However  low  it  be  ; 
For  though  to  him  unheard  its  tone, 
There  still  is  an  Almighty  One, 
Who  from  the  daisy  and  the  sun 

Alike  wakes  melody. 


360  TO    A    FLOWER. 

That  hand  which  spread  the  heaven  around, 

Without  a  limit  or  a  bound, 

And  placed  in  its  pure  depths  profound 

The  myriad  orbs  of  night, 
Upreared  thy  petals  from  the  ground, 

And  oped  them  to  the  light. 
The  very  voice  which  bade  earth  speed 

Upon  her  way  un wearied  ly 
Hath  called  the  sunbeam  at  thy  need, 

And  bade  the  dew-drop  water  thee. 
For  't  is  the  same  pervading  soul 

That  through  the  universe  is  met, 
Ruling  alike  the  all-perfect  whole, 
And  every  part  and  every  germ. 

Ah  !  did  not  man  that  truth  forget, 
He  would  not  tread  upon  the  worm, 
Nor  spurn  the  reptile  for  his  form, 

Nor  crush  the  humble  violet. 

1832. 


361 


COME,    LEST    THE    LARK. 


COME,  lest  the  lark  pour  out  alone 
His  matin  at  our  Maker's  throne,  — 

Come,  hail  the  new-born  day  ; 
But  mingle  no  untimely  moan 

Amid  the  festive  lay  ; 
'T  is  not  the  hour  for  sorrow's  plaintive  tone. 

The  glad  earth  sends  her  incense  up  ; 

Joy  thrills  the  living  crowd  ; 
The  young  bee,  in  the  honey-cup, 

Sings  at  his  task  aloud. 
As  up  the  mountain  rolls  the  cloud, 

The  wood-rose  opens  there  ;  • 

And  the  slight  cedar-tops  are  bowed 

Beneath  the  waking  air. 

Long,  Father,  may  my  cloudless  eye 
Behold  thee  in  the  vaulted  sky, 

And  in  the  springing  flower ; 
Thy  wisdom  in  the  butterfly, 

That  sports  his  little  hour, 
Then  folds  his  burnished  wings  to  die. 
i.  31 


COME,    LEST    THE    LARK. 

Teach  me  to  ever  walk  below 

In  wisdom's  way  alone  ; 
To  weep  my  brother's  sin  and  woe, 

And  struggle  with  my  own. 
.May  I  reject  the  tempter's  throne, 

And  scorn  the  proffered  gem,  — 
There  is  a  kingdom  all  my  own, 

A  richer  diadem. 

U'hen  earthly  visions  shall  decay, 
As  the  light  frost-work  melts  away 

Before  the  summer's  breath, 
Upspringing  from  this  ball  of  clay, 

Across  the  realms  of  death, 
Grant  me  to  dwell  in  an  eternal  day. 


1833. 


363 


BY    EARTH    HEMMED    IN. 


BY  earth  hemmed  in,  with  earth  oppressed, 
'T  is  hard  to  labor,  hard  to  pray  ; 

And  of  the  week,  for  prayer  and  rest 
We  've  but  one  Sabbath  day. 

But  purer  spirits  walk  above, 

Who  worship  alway, —  who  are  blest 

With  an  upspringing  might  of  love, 
That  makes  all  labor  rest. 

Father  !  while  here,  I  would  arise 
In  spirit  to  that  realm  ;  and  there, 

Be  every  act  a  sacrifice, 

And  every  thought  a  prayer. 

1839. 


364 


H  Y  M  N  . 


ALMIGHTY  God  !  with  hearts  of  flesh 
Into  thy  presence  we  have  come, 

To  breathe  our  filial  vows  afresh, 

And  make  thy  house  once  more  our  home. 

We  know  that  thou  art  ever  nigh ; 

We  know  that  thou  art  with  us  here,  — 
That  every  action  meets  thine  eye, 

And  every  secret  thought  thine  ear. 

But  grant  us,  God,  this  truth  to  feel, 
As  well  as  know ;  grant  us  the  grace, 

Somewhat  as  Adam  knew  thee,  still 
To  know  and  see  thee,  face  to  face. 

Here,  while  we  breathe  again  our  vows, 

Appointing  one  to  minister 
In  holy  things  within  this  house, 

Grant  us  to  feel  that  Thou  art  here. 


May  10,  1839. 


365 


THE    STORM- SHAKEN   WINTER 


THE  storm-shaken  winter 

Has  passed  from  earth's  bosom, 
And  spring  to  our  borders 

Brings  back  bird  and  blossom  ; 
Through  all  her  sweet  life-strings, 

Through  all  her  glad  voices, 
In  daylight  and  darkness, 

Old  Nature  rejoices. 

And  we  have  known  winter, 

The  dark  storm  hath  swept  us  ; 
But  God,  our  preserver, 

Hath  graciously  kept  us. 
The  winter  is  passing, 

The  spring  bursts  around  us, 
And  He  has  with  new  bands 

Of  brotherhood  bound  us. 

To  thank  Him,  our  Father, 

As  brethren  we  come  here  ; 
Our  hopes  and  our  wishes, — 

Henceforth  be  their  home  here  ! 
Almighty  Eedeemer, 

We  ask  not  to  fear  Thee, 
But,  like  our  Great  Teacher, 

To  know,  love,  revere,  Thee. 
1839. 

31* 


366 


THE   VOICE   THAT   BADE   THE   DEAD   ATCISE. 


THE  voice  that  bade  the  dead  arise, 
And  gave  back  vision  to  the  blind, 

Is  hushed  ;  but  when  he  sought  the  skies, 
Our  Master  left  his  Word  behind. 

'T  was  not  to  calm  the  billows'  roll, 
'T  was  not  to  bid  the  hill  be  riven ; 

No  !   't  was  to  lift  the  fainting  soul, 

And  lead  the  erring  back  to  heaven,  — 

To  heave  a  mountain  from  the  heart, 
To  bid  those  inner  springs  be  stirred. 

Lord,  to  thy  servant  here  impart 

The  quickening  wisdom  of  that  Word  ! 

Dwell,  Father,  in  this  earthly  fane, 
And,  when  its  feeble  walls  decay, 

Be  with  us  till  we  meet  again 
Amid  thy  halls  of  endless  day. 


367 


THE    PAST    AND    THE    FUTURE. 


THE  blush  upon  a  summer  sky  ; 

The  ocean's  moan  upon  the  shore  ; 

The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye  ; 

A  sound  we  never  heard  before  ; 

The  dark  main  waking  in  its  ire  ; 

The  shifting  of  the  northern  fire  ;  — 

Ten  thousaad  things  which  Fortune  flings 

Across  our  drudging  daily  track, 

May  touch  the  quick,  electric  rings 

Of  Memory's  mysterious  chain, 

And,  like  the  light  from  heaven,  comes  back 

The  past  in  youthful  prime  again. 

The  sculptured  column  seems  a  tree, 

The  moulded  roof  a  sky  ; 

And  we  hear  the  wood-bird's  minstrelsy 

In  the  bleak  wind  whistling  by. 

The  mist  curls  up  into  the  form 

Of  those  that  lived,  and  loved,  and  died  ; 

And  the  bleak  winter  seems  the  warm 

And  pleasant  summer-tide ! 

Again  I  seek  the  shady  nook, 

Or  tumble  on  the  new-mown  hay, 


368  THE    PAST    AND    THE    FUTURE. 

Or  chase  the  fishes  in  the  brook, 
Or,  happy,  buoyant,  bright,  and  gay, 
With  old  straw  hat  upon  my  head, 
Once  more  my  native  hills  I  tread, 
And  watch  the  sinking  sunlight  shed 
Its  pensive  beauty  o'er  the  bay. 
While  round  me,  'mid  the  radiance  mild, 
Cluster,  as  when  a  little  child, 
The  many  forms  I  knew,  which  lie 
In  mouldering  graves  so  silently. 
But  while  the  memories  of  the  past 
Thus  throng  upon  me,  thick  and  fast, 
And  from  the  realms  of  deatli  and  doubt 
The  spirits  of  the  dead  step  out, 
And  the  drop  stands  upon  my  brow, — 
Some  careless,  some  unmindful  hand 
Will  tear  me  from  that  blessed  land, 
Drive  from  my  sight  that  magic  train,  — 
And  I  a  wanderer  am  again. 

But  what  a  wondrous  power  is  this  ! 
And  what  a  privilege  is  ours, 
To  find  a  never-failing  bliss 
In  past  and  future  hours  ! 
Misfortune  o'er  the  present  day 
May  govern  with  unquestioned  sway ; 
But  in  that  world  which  is  to  be, 
IIo.v  poor,  how  powerless,  is  she  ! 
Though  pain  and  poverty  their  might, 
With  fearful  death,  should  all  unite 
To  crush  me  to  the  earth, 
Still  would  the  clastic  spirit  rise, 
The  suffering  and  the  fear  despise, 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  FUTURE.  369 

And  seek  beyond  the  opening  skies 
The  country  of  its  birth. 
There  unto  me  it  may  be  given, 
Amid  the  countless  hosts  of  heaven, 
Amid  the  bright,  seraphic  band, 
Before  my  Father's  throne  to  stand, 
Before  my  ^Saviour's  face  to  bow, — 
A  seraph's  sceptre  in  my  hand, 
A  seraph's  crown  upon  my  brow. 

Then  unto  me  the  power  may  be, 
With  kind  and  gentle  ministry, 
To  bid  the  warring  cease,  — 
To  cause  the  shades  of  sorrow  flee, 
And  bring  the  mourner  peace. 
Or,  in  a  wider  sphere  of  good, 
Above  some  universe  of  strife, 
Dove-like,  it  may  be  mine  to  brood, 
And  still  the  chaos  into  life. 

O,  when  I  dwell  on  thoughts  like  these, 
My  spirit  seems  to  hear  the  cry, 
"  Come  up  !  "  —  and,  listening  to  the  call, 
Earth's  dearest  pleasures  quickly  pall, 
The  scales  from  off  my  vision  fall, 
And  I  could  pray  to  die. 


1835. 


370 


THAT    HAPPY    LAND 


LET  us  seek  for  that  happy  land 
Where  grief  is  unknown  ; 

Let  us  seek  to  rejoin  the  band 
That  has  made  heaven  its  own. 

Haste,  haste,  let  us  flee 

To  that  calm  eternity  ; 

Ours  all  its  peace  shall  be, 
But  not  ours  alone. 

To  that  happy  land  shall  come 

All  our  Saviour  knows; 
In  that  our  Father's  home 

All  shall  find  repose. 
There,  there,  every  race 
Shall  have  ample  dwelling-place, 
And,  cheered  by  God's  own  face, 
Shall  forget  its  woes. 

Let  us  seek,  then,  that  happy  land 
Where  hate  is  unknown  ; 

Let  us  seek  for  the  brother  band, 
That  has  made  heaven  its  own. 

Haste,  haste,  let  us  flee, 

Where  true  love  shall  ever  be,  — 

Where  through  eternity 
Love  shall  rule  alone. 


371 


INVOCATION. 


SPIRITS  who  hover  near  me,  —  ye  whose  wings 

Beat  back  the  Tempter, —  whose  sweet  presence  brings 

Calm,  gentle  feelings,  wishes  pure  and  kind, 

An  eye  for  all  God's  beauty,  and  a  mind 

Open  to  all  his  voices,  —  still  be  nigh, 

When  the  Great  Mystery  its  broad  shadow  flings 

Over  earth's  firmest  visions,  till  they  fly 

Like  phantoms  of  the  night,  and  teach  me  how  to  die. 

When  my  breath  faileth,  as  the  summer  air 
Fainteth  at  evening,  —  when  my  heart,  whose  care 
Jesus  hath  lightened,  throbs,  stops,  throbs  again, 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  ceases  without  pain 
Its  noiseless,  voiceless  labors,  —  still  be  nigh  ; 
Let  not  the  form  of  ghastly  Death  be  there, 
But  to  my  clouded,  yet  clear-seeing  eye 
Reveal  your  forms  of  light,  and  make  me  love  to  die. 

The  pinions  of  the  Dark  and  Dreaded  One 
Shall  not,  then,  fan  my  temples,  when  't  is  done 
This  hard-fought  fight ;  your  fingers  shall  untie 
My  earthward  bonds  ;  your  voices  silently 
Whisper,  "  Come  home,  your  course  is  but  begun  "  ; 
And  in  your  arms  borne  upward,  far  on  high, 
With  mind  and  heart  tuned  to  heaven's  harmony, 
I  shall  know  all,  love  all,  and  find  't  is  Life  to  die. 
FLAT  ROCK,  June  9th,  1845. 


372 


SPIRITUAL    PRESENCE. 


IT  is  a  beautiful  belief, 

When  ended  our  career, 
That  it  will  be  our  ministry 

To  watch  o'er  others  here  ; 

To  lend  a  moral  to  the  flower ; 

Breathe  wisdom  on  the  wind  ; 
To  hold  commune,  at  night's  pure  noon, 

With  the  imprisoned  mind  ; 

To  bid  the  mourners  cease  to  mourn, 

The  trembling  be  forgiven  ; 
To  bear  away  from  ills  of  clay 

The  infant,  to  its  heaven. 

Ah !  when  delight  was  found  in  life, 

And  joy  in  every  breath, 
I  cannot  tell  how  terrible 

The  mystery  of  death. 

But  now  the  past  is  bright  to  me, 

And  all  the  future  clear  ; 
For  't  is  my  faith,  that  after  death 

I  still  shall  linger  here. 


Ic33.' 


TALES 


VOL.    I. 


32 


MELANCTIIOX    AND    LUTHER. 


WHEN  Luther  left  his  hiding-place  at  the  castle  of  the 
Wartburg,  and  went  up  for  a  season  to  visit  his  little  flock  at 
the  University,  he  stayed  with  Melancthon  at  the  house  of 
AmsdorfF,  a  brother  of  the  priest  of  that  name. 

It  was  an  old  house  even  then,  overrun  with  useless  pas- 
sages, dark  and  deep  stairways,  and  doors  that  led  nowhere  ; 
and  though  the  rooms  which  Philip  occupied  were  in  front 
of  the  building,  and  by  far  the  best  in  it,  yet  were  there  no 
less  than  eight  doors  leading  from  them,  two  only  of  which 
were  ever  used.  As  for  the  rest,  as  they  would  not  lock, 
Philip  had  placed  some  broad-backed  chairs  against  them, 
and  sat  down  careless  whither  they  led. 

There  were  no  residents  in  the  old  castle  but  Melancthon 
and  his  young  wife,  old  AmsdorfF  and  a  single  daughter, 
Catherine,  who  went  singing  about  among  the  dusty  by-ways 
of  the  dwelling,  with  all  the  joyousness  proper  to  a  Saxon 
lassie  of  sixteen.  Philip,  demure  as  he  was,  loved  a  pretty 
girl  dearly,  though  the  more  he  liked,  the  more  he  feared 
her  ;  and  the  bright,  flowing  curls  and  swimming  blue  eyes 
of  the  maiden  that  met  him  now  and  then,  as  he  came  from 
his  lectures,  were  by  no  means  powerless,  so  that  ere  long 
he  was  as  much  afraid  to  go  home  as  if  he  thought  an  enemy 
lay  in  wait  for  him  ;  and  as  she,  the  more  they  met,  grew 
the  more  familiar,  every  day  added  to  his  trouble,  until  at 


376  MELANCTHON  AND  LUTHER. 

length  his  very  visions  were  filled  with  the  form  that  he  so 
much  feared  to  meet  smiling  in  the  entry,  or  swaying  the 
broomstick  upon  the  stairs  ;  —  and  all  because  she,  in  her 
innocence,  and  knowing  his  bashful  temper,  never  dreamed 
that  a  married  man  and  a  professor  ever  thought  of  any 
thing  but  his  wife  and  his  books. 

It  was  a  cold  and  rainy  night,  and  the  wind  howled  mys- 
teriously in  the  many  passages,  and  died  away  in  broken 
groans  in  the  distance.  Philip  sat  alone,  musing  over  the 
embers.  His  wife  had  gone  to  her  father's  to  make  room  for 
the  great  apostle  of  reform,  who  was  himself  spending  the 
evening  with  some  of  his  few,  but  devoted,  disciples. 

The  solitude,  the  storm,  the  state  of  the  Church,  and  the 
many  dangers  that  threatened,  not  men  alone,  but  eternal 
truths,  all  united  to  weigh  down  the  hopes  of  one  at  no 
time  of  a  hopeful  turn,  and  now  more  than  ever  depressed, 
lest  his  brother  and  master  should  be  discovered  and  seized. 
In  vain  did  Philip  turn  to  the  sacred  volume,  and  try  to  bend 
his  thoughts  to  study  ;  in  vain  did  he  look  out  upon  the  night, 
and  watch  the  flickering  lantern  of  the  bewildered  passers- 
by  ;  in  vain  did  he  listen  to  the  shrieks  and  shoutings  of  the 
air-demons,  as  they  rang  through  the  empty  halls  ;  for  ever 
and  ever  his  mind  went  back  to  the  dangers  of  the  great 
cause,  and  the  voice  of  the  tempest  seemed  to  speak  only  of 
evil.  At  length,  at  a  moment  when  the  wind  lulled,  he 
heard,  or  thought  he  heard,  a  whisper  and  a  laugh  close  be- 
hind him.  He  started,  but  there  was  nothing  there  save  the 
waving  tapestry.  Reaching  his  stick,  he  made  the  circuit  of 
the  chamber,  but  all  was  as  usual,  save  that  one  of  the  doors 
had  pushed  back  the  chair  that  stood  before  it  and  was  ajar. 
As  it  would  not  even  latch,  he  placed  a  heavier  weight 
against  it,  and  once  more  sank  into  sad  musings  by  the  fire. 

Why  was  Luther  so  late  ?  Was  it  the  storm  ?  He  feared 
not  the  elements.  Was  it  the  company  of  friends  that  kept 
him  ?  It  might  be,  or,  as  Philip  well  knew,  it  might  be  the 


MELANCTHON  AND  LUTHER.  377 

hands  of  enemies.  More  and  more  worried,  more  and  more 
excited,  the  poor  professor  heard  every  sound  with  anxiety 
and  evil  foreboding.  At  length  the  front  door  opened,  — 
his  heart  ached  with  hope  and  fear.  There  was  a  heavy 
step  in  the  hall  below,  and  he  almost  shouted  for  joy  ;  but 
the  heavy  step  passed  away,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
tempest  again. 

Another  half-hour  of  fear  and  vague  thought  passed 
slowly  on,  and  in  the  private  passage  that  led  from  his 
chamber  to  that  of  his  host,  whom  he  knew  to  be  out,  Philip 
heard  footfalls  and  smothered  voices  ;  —  one  was  the  voice  of 
a  woman.  The  first  thought  was,  that  his  master's  dwelling- 
place  had  been  made  known,  and  that  they  now  sought  him. 
Never  possessed  of  much  presence  of  mind,  Philip  at  the 
instant  placed  his  shoulder  against  the  door,  and  stood  pre- 
pared to  resist  when  resistance  was  called  for.  A  few  whis- 
pers were  heard,  a  step  or  two,  and  a  hand  was  laid  upon 
the  latch  without.  "  Come  not  here,"  cried  Melancthon, 
"  for  I  am  armed,  and  ready  to  resist  stoutly.  On  your  life, 
beware,  and  go  hence,  whoever  you  be." 

"  Go  hence  ! "  answered  a  laughing  voice,  at  the  first 
sound  of  which  Melancthon  fell  back,  as  if  struck  by  a 
strong  hand. 

"  Go  hence  !  "  cried  Luther,  as,  dripping  and  smiling,  he 
strode  through  the  unresisting  door.  "  Why,  how  now,  bully 
Philip,  what  freak  is  this  ?  Heady  to  resist  stoutly  !  By  my 
cowl,  brother,  I  thought  I  was  the  Saint  Peter,  and  you  the 
peaceful  John,  of  the  good  work  ;  but  I  think  you'll  cut  off 
more  ears  than  I,  after  all,  with  that  big  staff  of  yours. 
Here  have  I  stumbled  through  your  dark  mansion  fora  half- 
hour,  and  at  last  called  poor  Kate  from  her  bower,  I  think, 
for  she  has  come  out  of  some  labyrinth,  looking  as  foolish 
as  you  ever  did,  Philip,  and  all  to  have  that  great  stick 
flourished  at  me,  as  though  my  Doctor  of  Wittenberg  were 
a  country  clown,  hot  for  a  bout  at  quarterstaff.  Of  a  truth, 
32* 


37H  MELANCTHON    AND    LUTHKIt. 

I    must   sciul   thcc   to   Kuino   to   knock   the   Pope  over  the 
knuckles,  when  lie  aims  another  hull  at  my  head." 

Hut  Melancthon  was  too  glad  to  see  his  friend  safe  home 
to  care  for  his  gibes,  and  their  converse  soon  turned  to 
Luther's  hopes,  and  plans,  and  displeasures. 

"  I  am  grieved  and  vexed,"  said  the  Reformer  sternly,  "  to 
see  tht;  little  spirit  there  is  among  you.  Will  not  m\  written 
words  do,  hut  I  must  he  here  to  scold  and  play  schoolmas- 
ter r  Work  as  I  will  in  my  captivity,  it  is  vain,  if  your  free- 
men second  me  not.  Kven  you,  Philip,  have  given  too 
much  to  the  baser  spirits  ;  you  are  too  tolerant,  man,  by 
half." 

"  Nay,"  said  Melancthon,  "  hut  I  even  fear  lest  I  he  my- 
self in  error." 

"  And  know  you  not,  hoy,"  answered  Luther,  "that  that 
fear  is  the  prompting  of  Satun  ?  We  are  right,  —  I  know  we 
are  right.  1  too  have  had  fears,  but  I  know  they  came  from 
hell,  and  as  such  I  battled  with  and  drove  them  out,  even 
as  I  drove  out  the  Father  of  Lies  himself,  when  he  mocked 
me  at  midnight." 

"  Where  r  how  ?  when  ?  "  eagerly  inquired  his  compan- 
ion. 

11  And  no  wonder  you  mocked,"  continued  Luther,  his 
mind  filled  with  the  memory  of  that  night,  and  his  flashing 
eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  —  u  no  wonder  you  mocked,  for  has 
not  my  whole  life  been  given  to  the  beating  down  of  your 
power  and  glory  ?  Hut  mock  and  mouth  as  you  will,"  —  and 
he  shook  his  clenched  fist  at  the  imagined  demon,  —  "  In  the 
help  of  (Jod  and  his  Christ,  I  will  drive  you  and  your  servant 
of  Home  from  this  broad  earth,  let  the  lion-whelp  of  Eng- 
land howl,  and  the  asses  of  the  Sorbonne  bray  as  they  will." 

'•  Hut  of  this  visit .' "  said  Melancthon  a^ain. 

"  It  was  at  the  Wartburg.  I  had  been  poring  over  an  ob- 
scure text  of  Paul's  all  night,  till  I  saw  darkness  in  my  lamp 
and  balls  of  fire  in  the  darkness.  Puzzled  and  wearied,  and 


MELANCTHON  AND  LUTHER.  379 

provoked,  I  threw  down  the  holy  book,  and  looking  up, 
behold  !  the  foe.  It  was  a  fearful  moment,  Philip,  for  me 
and  for  the  cause  ;  had  I  faltered  then,  it  might  have  been 
that  the  truth  had  fallen.  But  God  gave  me  strength. 
Looking  the  demon  full  in  his  blood-red  eye,  I  lifted  my 
large  stone  inkstand  and  hurled  it  at  his  head.  He  fled, 
howling,  not  from  the  blow,  but  from  the  spirit  ;  and,  by 
God's  grace,  I  will  with  equal  ease  rout  him  and  his  hosts, 
come  when  and  where  they  will." 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  the  storm  lulled  for  a  moment, 
and  a  low,  hollow  laugh  just  behind  them  brought  both  to 
their  feet. 

"  I  have  heard  it  before,"  said  Melancthon  ;  "  it  bodes  no 
good." 

His  comrade  made  no  reply,  but,  taking  the  lamp,  walked 
to  the  door  which  Philip  had  before  closed,  and  which 
again  stood  ajar.  They  entered  a  long  and  moulder- 
ing corridor,  from  the  ceiling  of  which  the  spiders'  webs 
hung  thickly,  while  from  the  floor  the  dust  rose  in  clouds. 
They  searched  the  room.  .  It  was  empty.  A  window  at  the 
end  stood  open  ;  this  they  closed,  and  again  returned  to  the 
fireside. 

"  They  may  perchance  seek  my  life,"  said  Luther,  "  and 
it  behooves  me  to  have  care.  Should  we  hear  any  thing  fur- 
ther, I  will  enter  the  hall  barefooted  and  without  a  light ; 
and  should  any  pass  this  way,  Philip,  use  thy  staff,  or  hold 
fast  till  I  come." 

A  few  moments  went  by,  and  the  door  creaked  upon  its 
hinges  again,  and,  as  it  pushed  the  chair  before  it,  once  more 
they  heard  human  voices.  Taking  off  his  foot-gear,  Luther 
stole  into  the  hall.  For  a  moment  Philip  doubted,  and  then 
the  thought  of  the  danger  which  hung  over  his  master  led 
him  to  follow.  Within  it  was  darkness,  and  the  sounds  of 
the  storm  drowned  all  other  sounds.  Following  carefully  the 
wall,  Melancthon  had  nearly  reached  the  window,  when  he 


MELANCTHON    AND       LT'THER. 

laid  his  liand  upon  a  human  arm.     The    person   strove  !o 
escape,  but  lie  held  fast. 

"  I  la  !  have  you  the  enemy  ?  "  said  the  low,  deep  tones  of 
Luther  from  the  distance. 

He  would  have  answered  "Yes,"  hut  at  that  instant  his 
prize  turned  upon  him,  the  arms  of  a  woman  were  thrown 
about  his  neck,  and  her  soft  lips  pressed  to  his.  With  a 
scream  of  horror,  amazement,  anil  alarm,  he  struggled  to 
be  free.  lie  was  so,  and  so  was  his  captive  ;  and  when 
Luther's  lamp  made  things  visible,  there  was  no  one  in  the 
wide  chamber  but  Philip,  who,  with  open  eyes  and  quiver- 
ing limbs,  was  giving  silent  thanks  for  his  deliverance  from 
the  Evil  One.  But  alas  for  his  tale  of  Satan's  device  to 
ensnare  him  !  Luther  picked  from  the  floor  a  scarf,  bear- 
ing the  name  of  "  Catherine  AmsdorfT." 

"  By  my  cowl,"  said  Luther  laughing,  "  but  the  girl  chose 
a  sure  way  to  fright  your  professorship  into  an  ague-fit,  and 
make  her  freedom  certain.  She  had  a  keen  eye  for  the 
weak  point  of  that  sheep's  head  of  thine.  But  thou  shouldst 
have  held  fast,  Philip.  Devil,  damsel,  or  armed  man,  it  mat- 
ters not,  give  not  up  thy  grasp,  boy  ;  and  the  kiss  of  a  pretty 
maiden  will  harm  thee  at  least  us  little  as  the  blow  of  a 
brawny  arm,  or  the  horn  of  the  Evil  One." 

But  though  he  knew  the  advice  to  be  good,  Philip  never 
heeded  it,  and  to  his  last  hour  held  not  fast,  as  Luther  wished 
him,  nor  ever  thought  of  that  night  or  of  that  kiss  without  a 
chill. 


LORD    OSSORY. 


THE  unwavering  loyalty  and  stern  honor  of  James  Butler, 
Duke  of  Ormond,  is  almost  proverbial.  Through  the  civil 
wars,  his  fidelity  to  the  king  was  never  for  a  moment  shak- 
en, though  fame,  fortune,  and  power  were  a  necessary  sac- 
rifice to  his  devotion  ;  and  when  the  king  did  "  enjoy  his 
own  again,"  —  and  enjoy  it  in  a  manner  that  disgraced  him 
forever,  —  Ormond  and  his  family  remained  unpolluted  in 
that  festering  court,  uncorrupted  in  the  midst  of  venality.  He 
did  indeed  stand  alone.  The  degeneracy  of  the  times  did  not 
reach  him,  and  such  was  the  power  of  his  strong  virtue  over 
even  the  sensualist  Charles,  that,  when  the  king  frowned 
upon  him,  he  did  it  with  so  poor  a  grace  that  Buckingham 
inquired  "  whether  the  Duke  were  out  of  his  Majesty's  fa- 
vor, or  his  Majesty  out  of  the  Duke's  ?  "  But,  noble  as  was 
the  character  of  Ormond,  it  did  not  surpass,  and  scarcely 
equalled,  that  of  his  wife ;  and  their  combined  virtues  lived 
again  in  the  Lord  Ossory,  their  son. 

To  this  young  nobleman  we  may  look  as  to  a  model  of 
all  that  is  noble  in  character  and  in  person.  Tall,  strong, 
active,  and  with  an  open,  handsome  countenance,  his  outer 
man  was  a  true  exponent  of  the  being  that  ruled  within. 
As  a  son,  a  husband,  and  a  patriot,  he  was  never  surpassed 
in  kindness,  truth,  and  courage.  The  friend  of  the  desti- 
tute, the  steward  of  the  needy,  he  was  yet  the  embodied 
spirit  of  chivalry,  the  soul  of  honor,  the  lion  of  England, 


382  LORD    OSSORY. 

the  g'ory  of  his  age,  his  country,  and  his  race.  "  No  writ- 
er," says  the  historian,  "  ever  appeared,  then  or  since,  so 
regardless  of  truth  and  of  his  o\vn  character  as  to  venture 
one  stroke  of  censure  on  that  of  the  Earl  of  Ossory." 

And  yet  upon  this  character  there  was  a  blot.  Although 
engaged  in  every  important  battle  on  land  or  sea  until  his 
death,  —  although  he  dared  accuse  the  favorite  and  nandcr 
of  his  king  in  his  king's  presence,  telling  him  that  he  well 
knew  that  he,  George  Villiers,  was  the  instigator  of  the  as- 
sassin that  had  attempted  his  father's  life,  and  giving  him 
warning  that,  if  by  any  means  the  Duke  of  Ormond  was 
murdered,  he  would  hold  him  to  be  the  assassin,  and  pistol 
him,  though  he  stood  by  his  monarch's  chair,  —  yet  was 
there  an  enemy  to  whose  might  even  Ossory  bowed,  an 
assassin  to  whose  dagger  he  bared  his  heart. 

#  *  *  *  * 

It  was  a  calm  evening,  and  the  Countess  lingered  longer 
than  usual  under  the  noble  oaks,  pacing  the  greensward  and 
listening  for  the  sound  of  her  lord's  steed.  He  had  gone 
the  previous  morning  to  the  city,  to  conclude  some  negotia- 
tions respecting  certain  moneys  which,  at  his  wife's  request, 
he  had  loaned  to  her  father,  and  she  now  awaited  the  suc- 
cess of  his  endeavours,  for  they  were  of  much  import  to  her 
parent.  But  the  twilight  faded,  and  the  lady  was  forced  to 
retire  to  her  chamber  alone.  Another,  and  another,  and  a 
third  hour  past,  but  he  came  not,  and  his  lady  began  to  fear 
lest  some  of  those  who  had  sought  to  hang  the  father  upon 
Tyburn  gallows  should  be  now  exulting  over  the  fall  of  the 
renowned  son.  But  again,  when  she  remembered  his  prow- 
ess, his  band  of  followers,  and,  above  all,  the  moral  might 
of  the  very  name  of  Ossory,  she  felt  that  there  could  be  no 
danger. 

The  clock  had  told  the  hour  past  midnight,  and,  save  the 
Countess  and  one  of  her  women,  all  within  doors  were 
asleep.  There  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  gate,  then  the 


LORD    OSSORY.  383 

ladies  heard  the  porter's  voice,  the  portal  opened,  and  a 
light  step  was  heard  on  the  stair.  Quick  as  the  thought, 
the  noble  lady  flung  open  her  chamber  door,  and,  seizing 
the  page's  arm,  —  for  it  was  her  lord's  page,  — "  Ron- 
ald," she  said,  and  the  tones  were  low  and  husky,  "  where 
is  your  master  ?  "  The  boy  stood  trembling  and  silent. 
"  Where  ?  "  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  that  would  be  an- 
swered. "  In  the  grove  by  the  old  castle,"  he  faltered. 
"  And  who  was  with  him  ?  "  "  No  one."  The  blood  went 
slowly  from  the  lady's  countenance,  until  even  her  lips  were 
as  ashes.  "Does  he  live?"  she  said,  and  so  sepulchral 
was  the  voice  that  Ronald  started  for  fear.  "  Assuredly  he 
does,  dear  lady,"  cried  the  child,  bursting  into  tears ;  "  he  is 
not  harmed,  but  only  ill  in  mind.  Go  to  him,  and  comfort 
and  support  him,  my  more  than  mother, —  for  he  would 
not  let  any,  not  even  me,  stay  by  him,  he  was  so  ill  at 
ease."  As  the  leaden  and  livid  cloud,  when  touched  by 
the  sunbeam,  is  moulded  into  a  world  of  beauty  and  light, 
even  so  did  the  boy's  speech  bring  back  to  the  noble  lady's 
countenance  its  wonted  life ;  and  even  while  the  tears  of 
joy  rolled  down  her  cheek,  and  the  throbbing  of  the  heart 
choked  her  voice,  she  motioned  to  her  tirewoman  to  pre- 
pare her  dress  for  going  abroad. 

With  no  other  attendant  than  her  lord's  hound,  —  whose 
sagacity,  strength,  and  courage  made  him  a  guard  of  more 
value  than  any  other  with  whom  she  was  willing  to  go  into 
her  husband's  presence,  —  she  passed  from  the  house,  and 
took  the  well-known  path  to  the  Hermit's  Hollow.  It  was 
a  dark  and  dreary  way  ;  the  ruined  castle  frowned  over  the 
dell,  and  the  copses  were  thick  and  impenetrable.  Were 
there  a  lion  in  the  path,  the  lady  could  not  have  turned 
aside ;  but  all  was  clear,  and,  preceded  by  her  stately 
attendant,  Emilie  de  Nassau  tripped  with  a  light  step,  but 
heavy  heart,  to  the  mystic  glen,  in  which  tradition  said  the 
heathen  of  old  had  sacrificed  to  their  false  gods  other  vic- 
tims than  sheep  and  goats. 


384  LORD    OSSORY. 

In  the  depth  of  the  dell,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  the 
Countess  saw  a  human  figure  seated  upon  the  ground,  and 
at  nearly  the  same  moment  he  was  discovered  by  Ca'ur- 
de-Lion,  whose  head  was  for  an  instant  raised,  while  his 
half-stifled  growl  spoke  suspicion,  but  who  the  next  instant 
sprang  from  his  mistress's  side,  and  with  a  few  bounds 
reached  and  crouched  to  the  sitting  figure.  The  man 
looked  up  for  a  moment,  and  then  his  head  drooped  again. 

The  Countess  was  satisfied  from  the  dog's  motions  that  it 
was  her  husband,  and  descended  by  the  narrow  pathway 
until  she  stood  before  the  seeming  sleeper;  for,  though  the 
hound  again  went  forward  to  welcome  her,  he  moved  not, 
and  to  seeming  lived  not.  "  My  Lord,"  she  said.  A  tremor 
passed  over  his  frame,  but  still  he  said  nothing.  She  stop- 
ped, and,  kneeling  upon  the  damp  earth,  "  My  husband," 
she  said,  "  speak  to  me."  It  was  not  a  tone  of  entreaty  nor 
of  command,  but  of  affection  ;  and,  raising  his  hot  brow, 
England's  noblest  chief  met  her  eye  for  one  moment,  and 
then  bowed  his  head  again  in  agony  and  shame.  "  Why 
do  you  turn  from  me,  my  Lord,"  she  continued  ;  "  have  I 
done  aught  to  displease  you  ?  "  Again  he  raised  his  head  ; 
the  drops  of  sweat  stood  upon  his  noble  forehead,  and  his 
hair  was  matted  and  tangled.  Even  by  the  moonlight  his 
young  wife  saw  the  blush  upon  his  cheek,  and  the  hot  hand 
she  grasped  told  of  fever  within. 

"  My  Lord,"  —  for  still  he  spoke  not, —  "  you  suffer." 

"I  do,  Emilie,"  said  the  stricken  Earl,  —  "I  do  suffer 
the  torments  of  the  damned." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Lord,  —  why  and  whence  this  anguish? 
Is  it  of  body  or  mind?  Where  have  you  been?  What 
done  ?  Why  seek  you  this  spot  ?  " 

"  To  hide  my  shame,"  replied  he,  as  over  his  open  face 
there  flitted  one  of  those  passing  expressions  which  witness 

"  lnige  affliction  and  dismay 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride." 


LORD    OSSORY.  385 

"  For  yesterday,"  he  continued,  "  I  could  have  faced, 
without  blenching,  the  proudest  noble,  the  bravest  foe  in 
Europe,  and  now  I  shrink  from  a  woman,  and  that  woman 
my  wife." 

"  And  why,  Lord  Ossory  ?  Has  the  first  man  in  England 
done  any  thing  to  disgrace  himself?  " 

"  I  have,  Emilie,"  cried  he,  rising  as  though  a  thousand 
weight  were  upon  his  stalwart  shoulders,  "  I  have  disgraced 
myself,  and  you,  and  all  that  claim  us  as  parents  or  as  chil- 
dren. My  word  is  forfeit,  my  pledged  word,  that  not  this 
round  world  should  have  tempted  me  to  break,  has  been 
broken  at  the  first  tempter's  bidding,  —  and  the  whole  earth 
hisses  at  me," — and  with  clenched  hands  he  pressed  his 
brain,  as  though  to  crush  the  organ  of  thought  that  brought 
thus  his  sins  before  him. 

"My  Lord  of  Ossory,"  said  his  queen-like  wife,  stepping 
back  from  him,  "  your  honor  is  in  your  own  keeping,  and 
my  honor  is  in  mine ;  no  act  of  yours  shall  attaint  rny  blood 
or  my  character  in  the  courts  of  God,  whatever  man  may 
adjudge.  Your  fault  I  parity  guess, —  partly,  indeed,  know. 
It  is  a  deep  and  dark  one,  my  Lord,  but  it  may  and  must  be 
repented ;  your  boasted  virtue  has  been  too  often  proved 
weak,  but  this  must  be  so  no  more.  The  man  whom  all 
Europe  dared  not  impeach  of  falsehood,  I  dare  and  do;  — 
and  he  dare  not  say  nay  to  the  charge." 

Twice  while  she  spoke,  the  young  nobleman  attempted 
to  seize  her  arm,  but  she  waved  him  back  with  an  air  which 
he,  who  knew  so  well  her  virtues  and  her  strength  of  mind, 
dared  not  disobey. 

"  Emilie,"  he  said,  when  she  ceased,  "  is  this  kind  ?  I 
am  already  in  the  dust ;  cannot  my  wife  wait  until  a  foe 
gives  me  the  mercy-stroke,  that  she  thus  chides  ?  " 

"  For  your  own  good,  and  from  my  love  to  you,  my  Lord, 
I  speak.  You  are  not  in  the  dust,  and  shall  not  be,  if  but 
true  to  yourself.  What  is  it  for  which  you  grieve  ?  " 

VOL.  i.  33 


386  LORD    OSSORY. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  and  that  briefly,"  be  said,  speaking  with 
the  bitterness  of  despair.  "  I  had  bound  myself,  as  you 
know,  to  your  father,  for  a  thousand  pounds.  Yesterday  I 
went  up  to  arrange  matters,  us  you  also  know  ;  I  did  well, 
and  received  the  money.  The  evening  was  to  be  spent 
with  your  cousin  Arlington,  at  whose  table  I  met  a  young 
stranger  from  your  land,  whose  face,  in  the  dim  light  they 
allowed  us,  seemed  pleasant  enough,  and  whose  voice  and 
manner  were  those  of  a  stripling  bred  at  court.  I  took  to 
him,  though  why  I  know  not,  and  by  and  by  he  proposed 
play.  For  a  time  I  was  averse, — though,  with  shame  let 
me  say  it,  I  dared  not  refuse  on  principle,  —  but  he  at  length 
won  me  to  bet  with  him  on  certain  of  the  players  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  We  did  not  see  their  hands,  nor  did 
he  in  fact  go  near  them.  We  talked,  and  betted,  and  talked 
again,  and  still  I  lost  ever.  I  pledged  of  your  father's  mon- 
ey, and  that  too  went ;  till,  owing  to  desperation,  and  utterly 
forgetful  of  my  duty,  my  word,  my  honor,  and  my  virtue,  I 
staked  all  I  had  received,  and  lost  it  all.  Just  then  —  would 
to  God  it  had  been  an  hour  sooner !  —  my  father  sent  for 
me,  and  I  left  your  brother's  penniless.  The  whole  of  the 
past  day  I  have  been  engaged  in  business,  but  with  the 
evening  came  the  remembrance  of  my  disgrace,  and  I  dared 
not,  Einilie,  I  dared  not  meet  you.  My  broken  faith  will 
be  known,  my  loose  virtue  will  be  scoffed  at,  and  the 
spotless  scutcheon  of  Ormond  will  be  stained  black  by  me  !  " 
Thus  saying,  the  victim  of  one  vice,  —  and  that  no  vice  to 
the  world,  —  the  miserable  gambler,  the  broken-spirited 
noble,  the  self-convicted,  self-condemned  man  of  honor, — 
flung  himself  upon  the  turf  as  though  he  had  hoped  a  grave 
would  open  beneath  him. 

For  a  few  moments  his  Countess  stood  by  him  in  silence, 
and  as  she  saw  how  strongly  he  was  moved,  the  tears  gath- 
ered in  her  lids,  and  she  knelt  by  his  side  again,  and  said, 
"  Ossory,  my  Lord  Ossory,  be  yourself;  this  anguish,  great 


LORD    OSSORY.  387 

as  it  is,  is  medicinal ;  you  will  henceforth  know  how  mighty 
the  sum  of  pain  which  follows  broken  vows  and  violated 
principles.  Rise,  my  Lord,  and  let  us  home.  Your  prom- 
ise to  my  father  shall  not  be  broken ;  your  money  waits 
you." 

Slowly  Lord  Ossory  rose  from  the  ground,  and  would 
have  asked  her  meaning,  but  she  turned  into  the  homeward 
path ;  the  lion-hearted  hound  sprang  on  in  advance,  but 
with  fallen  crest,  as  though  he  too  had  felt  his  master's 
shame  ;  and  behind  followed  the  noble,  with  bended  head. 
They  reached  the  portal,  —  the  wondering  warder  admitted 
them  ;  they  reached  the  chamber,  and  the  page  opened  it 
before  them.  The  Earl,  with  folded  arms,  stood  by  the  win- 
dow, as  a  criminal  before  his  judge  ;  the  Countess  took  from 
her  cabinet  some  papers,  and  carried  them  to  him.  "  Heav- 
ens !  "  he  cried,  "  do  I  dream  ?  They  are  the  very  bills  I 
lost  to  the  young  noble." 

"  They  are." 

"  And  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  stands  here  before  you.  By  connivance,  my  Lord, 
I  won  your  money,  lest  another  should  play  upon  your 
weakness ;  I  won  it  for  your  good,  and  now  restore  it  for 
your  honor." 

The  iron  band  about  his  forehead  was  loosed  ;  his  word 
was  not  forfeit,  his  scutcheon  was  not  stained  beyond  the 
reach  of  repentance  ;  and  bowing  his  head  upon  her  shoul- 
der, the  Lord  Ossory  wept.  From  that  day  forth  he  stood 
unimpeached  of  the  vice  of  gambling,  before  God  and  man. 


DOHA   M c  C  R  A  E  : 

AN    INCIDENT    OF    ST.    CLAIM'S    DEFEAT. 


THE  gathering  of  St.  Glair's  army  occupied  nearly  the 
whole  spring  and  summer  of  1791.  Among  those  who  cen- 
tred, somewhat  unwillingly,  around  his  standard,  were  the 
militia  of  Kentucky  ;  and  among  the  active  men  who  com- 
posed that  corps,  no  one  was  more  unwilling  than  John 
McCrae. 

John's  father  was  an  old  settler,  and  had  been  out  with 
Clark  more  than  once.  He  had  "  a  thirst  for  hair,"  as  they 
say  on  the  road  to  California.  He  would  have  John  go  to 
the  wars,  especially  since  his  friend,  Colonel  Ilardin,  had 
been  worsted  in  his  Indian  fights  under  Harmar.  I3ut  John 
had  no  love  of  Indians  and  no  love  of  war,  and  when  the 
old  man,  with  his  kindling  Irish  eye,  put  into  his  son's  hand 
the  hunting-knife  with  which  many  a  deer,  hear,  panther, 
and  more  than  one  "  human,"  had  heen  hied  to  death,  the 
son's  own  blood  ran  cold. 

"(Jive  it  to  the  varmints,"  said  the  white-haired  hunter, 
"  and  come  hack  here  without  a  scalp  on  your  head,  or  with 
many  under  your  6e//,  or  you  '11  taste  a  kiss  of  my  old  rifle, 
my  boy." 

The  Kcntuckians  all  went  to  the  contest  unwillingly,  be- 
cause regulars  were  to  be  with  them,  and  regular  officers 


DORA    McCRAE.  389 

were  to  command  them  ;  but  John  McCrae  was  backward, 
because  in  his  soul  he  was  an  arrant  coward.  But  his 
father  was  more  terrible  than  Mechecunnaqua,*  and  John 
went  to  the  wars.  The  old  man  had  as  much  of  a  suspicion 
that  his  son  was  a  coward,  as  such  a  man  could  have.  But 
the  truth  was  known  to  only  one  being,  Dora  McCrae,  John's 
twin-sister.  Each  was  the  fac-simile  of  the  other.  In  size, 
complexion,  features,  movement,  even  voice,  few  could 
distinguish  the  two  urchins  that  played  in  the  sugar-troughs, 
and  pounded  the  hominy  together.  John  was  tinged,  to  his 
tones  even,  with  effeminacy ;  Dora,  though  free  from  all 
coarseness,  was  tall,  active,  daring,  and  possessed  a  voice 
which,  ringing  through  the  clear  woods  of  Fayette,  might 
have  puzzled  an  old  pagan  to  tell  whether  it  was  Diana  or 
Apollo  he  listened  to.  But,  alike  as  they  were  externally, 
within  John  and  Dora  differed  widely.  She  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  fear  till  the  woman's  dread  of  insult  and  wrong 
slowly  quickened  in  her  soul.  The  beasts  of  prey  — 
wolves,  cougars,  bears  —  had  no  terror  for  her  childhood; 
and  many  a  time  had  she  gone  fearless  into  the  forest  to 
learn  the  meaning  of  some  strange  cry,  while  John  cowered 
in  the  cornfield. 

When  John  was  to  leave  for  Fort  Washington,  Dora,  per- 
fectly understanding  his  dread  of  the  work  before  him,  made 
up  her  mind  to  go  with  him.  She  had  cousins  in  the  little 
village  of  Cincinnati,  and  obtained  her  parents'  leave  to  go 
and  visit  them  while  John  was  preparing  for  his  northward 
march  under  St.  Clair.  She  knew  that  her  strong  affection 
for  her  brother  was  fully  returned  by  him,  and  trusted  her 
presence  and  influence  would  keep  him  true  to  his  duty. 

They  reached  the  little,  marshy  town  ;  John  reported  him- 
self to  the  proper  officer,  and,  until  the  movement  of  Sep- 
tember 17th,  when  the  army  was  got  under  way  for  the 
Miami  station,  —  now  Hamilton,  —  all  went  well,  and  Dora's 


*  Little  Turtle. 
33* 


390  DORA    McCRAE. 

throbbing  heart  grew  every  day  more  calm.  On  the  morn- 
ing of  that  day  she  rose  early,  and  went  to  her  brother's 
room,  to  bid  him  farewell,  —  it  might  be  for  ever.  She 
knocked,  —  no  answer  ;  louder,  —  there  was  no  reply  ; 
she  spoke,  —  no  sound  followed  but  the  snore  of  the  sleepers 
below.  She  went  into  the  room  ;  the  bed  was  empty,  the 
window  open,  the  clothes  of  the  late  occupant  scattered  here 
and  there.  The  dress  he  had  worn  on  duty  lay  on  the  floor. 
The  truth  instantly  flashed  across  the  mind  of  the  agitated 
girl,  —  "  lie  has  deserted  !  " 

For  a  while,  contempt  for  him,  love  for  him,  dread  of  her 
father's  anger,  sorrow  for  the  deadly  grief  of  the  old  veteran, 
were  mingled  in  her  mind.  She  saw  the  gray  Indian  fighter 
as  he  sat  at  his  cabin-door  in  the  early  autumn  sun,  and 
counted  the  victims  of  his  son's  rifle  and  knife  ;  again  she 
saw  him,  as  some  neighbour,  cruel  with  news,  came  in  and 
told  him  of  that  son's  desertion.  She  shuddered  at  the  look 
of  incredulous  horror  as  it  crept  over  and  fro/.e  that  beam- 
ing, scarred  countenance  ;  she  heard  his  cry  of  agony,  of 
vengeance,  as  he  realized  the  terrible  truth,  that  the  son  of 
a  McCrac  was  a  coward. 

With  that  swelling  from  the  heart  which  chokes  the 
throat,  and  runs  over  in  the  wet,  but  unwecping  eyes,  she 
gathered  her  soul's  energies,  and  saw  her  way  suddenly,  but 
dimly,  as  the  pilot  sees  the  circling  Ohio  when  the  morning 
mist  lifts  like  a  curtain. 

Often  in  early  youth  —  the  twins  were  at  the  time  we 
write  of  but  eighteen — she  had  changed  dresses  with  her 
brother  to  make  sport  among  the  neighbouring  cabins,  a  few 
miles  south,  on  the  Elkhorn.  At  this  moment,  filled  with 
mingled  emotions,  in  which  love  for  the  fugitive,  the  pride 
of  the  race  of  McCrae,  and  womanly  diffidence  prevailed, 
she  determined  to  clothe  herself  with  his  hunting-shirt  and 
leggings,  to  take  his  place  in  the  ranks,  to  save  his  reputation 
from  the  slanderer,  and,  if  she  lived,  to  hide  the  truth  from 
all  but  the  brother  she  had  saved. 


DORA    McCRAE.  391 

With  that  intense  calmness  winch  belongs  to  the  intense 
situations  of  life  Dora  looked  at  her  position.  She  must 
account  for  her  own  apparent  absence  from  her  cousin's 
house  ;  and  she  must  meet  the  difficulties  which  would  grow 
from  an  almost  entire  want  of  knowledge  of  a  military  life. 
Such  were  the  two  most  pressing  problems  before  her.  To 
solve  the  first  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments.  She  rapidly 
wrote,  in  her  backwoods  fashion,  a  few  lines  addressed  to 
John,  telling  him  that  she  could  not  bear  to  wait  for  his  de- 
parture ;  that  she  dreaded  the  last  farewells,  and  had  left  at 
early  dawn  to  return  to  her  home.  This  done,  she  went  to 
her  room,  packed  up  her  clothes,  which  she  put  in  his 
saddle-bags,  put  her  chamber  in  order,  carefully  cut  her 
hair,  and  lay  down  upon  his  bed.  Not  long  after,  the 
oldest  son  of  her  cousin  came  to  call  John  to  his  last 
breakfast.  Dora  rose,  dressed  herself  in  her  brother's 
militia  suit,  which  was  not  afcr  a  very  military  fashion, 
and  with  trembling  limbs  descended  the  ladder  by  which 
the  communication  between  the  two  stories  of  the  log- 
house  was  effected.  The  family  were  all  assembled,  and 
wondered  why  Dora,  who  was  commonly  up  so  early, 
though  John  was  given  to  morning  naps,  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared. John  (as  we  shall  now  call  his  representative)  sat 
down  to  his  corn-bread  and  rye  coffee,  and  if  but  little  was 
said,  and  he  seemed  somewhat  queer  and  troubled,  it  was 
ascribed  to  his  near  departure,  for  which,  as  the  family 
suspected,  he  had  no  especial  fancy.  "  But  where  's 
Dora  ?  Where  can  the  girl  be  ?  "  was  the  constant  in- 
quiry. At  last,  the  mother  of  the  young  Buckeyes  went 
herself  into  the  loft  to  look  after  her  cousin,  and  soon,  with 
fear  and  wonder  in  every  feature  and  limb,  came  down, 
bringing  the  note  to  John,  which,  in  her  plain  way.  she  had 
read  as  soon  as  she  saw  it.  "  The  child  's  mad  !  "  said  the 
father.  "  She  's  a  fool !  "  cried  the  aunt.  "  She  's  as 
wild  as  she  is  good,  that  's  sure,"  chimed  in  the  matron 


392  DORA    McCRAE. 

herself.  John's  eyes  brimmed  \\ith  tears,  hut  who  could 
wonder? — and  Dora  rejoiced  to  find  that  her  hold  nature 
made  that  seem  natural  for  her  to  do,  which  done  by  another 
would  have  seemed  most  out  of  nature.  No  one  doubted 
her  departure  ;  no  one  suspected  that  the  young  soldier 
before  them  was  anv  other  than  John  McCrae. 

And  now  she  lias,  or  he  has  (we  had  better  call  the 
voung  soldier  McCrae  by  \vav  of  compromise,  however,  and 
say  McCrae  has), —  well,  McCrae  has  found  a  squad  of  the 
sons  of"  Old  Kaintuck," —  they  at  twenty  being  older  than 
their  mother,  —  and  is  pressing  on  with  them  to  Ludlow's 
Station,  where  the  body  of  ihc  troops  had  long  been.  Dora 
was  as  well  acquainted  with  the  Kentucky  boys  as  John  had 
ever  been,  and  so  long  as  it  was  merely  to  carry  a  rifle  and 
use  it,  hunter-fashion,  she  was  equal  to  any  man.  Her  old 
father  would  have  thought  her  education  very  childish-like, 
if  she  could  not  carrv.  load,  fire  a  rifle.  —  run,  leap,  walk, 
ride, —  in  short,  go  through  any  frontier  calisthenics.  But 
she  dreaded  to  meet  the  Colonel,  and  be  put  upon  those 
semi-military  evolutions  which  John  had  been  practised  in 
for  many  weeks.  Her  second  problem,  as  yet,  found  no 
solution.  Ludlow's  Station  is  soon  reached;  Colonel  Old- 
ham  calls  his  boys  to  order,  puts  them  in  line,  and,  though 
no  very  strict  disciplinarian,  tries  to  learn  what  material  is 
under  him.  "Who  are  you,  Sir?"  "John  McCrae." 
"  Whore  from  ?  "  "  Fayette."  "  A  son  of  the  old  Irish- 
man ?"  "He's  my  father."  "  Good,  my  lad,"  says  the 
Colonel  ;  "  rnind  you  keep  up  the  honor  of  the  McCracs. 
I  've  heard  you  had  scarce  their  blood  in  you."  Dora's 
flashing  eyes  and  expanded  nostril  made  the  Colonel  fairly 
jump.  "  It  's  a  scandal,  a  slander,"  muttered  Oldliam,  as 
he  moved  on;  "the  fellow  has  soul,  has  pluck,  if  I  know 
an  eye  from  an  acorn."  Slowly,  through  the  wilderness  of 
stumps,  called  playfully  a  road,  the  troops  dragged  on  to- 
wards the  point  where  Fort  Hamilton  was  to  be  erected. 


DORA    McCRAE.  393 

During  the  march,  no  "  evolutions,"  except  the  common  one 
of  getting  out  of  a  quagmire,  were  called  for,  and  our  gen- 
derless  McCrae  got  the  run  of  the  corps,  the  outline  of 
operations,  quite  clearly  in  mind.  But  at  the  Miami  was  to 

• 

come  the  trial  ;  there,  in  the  intervals  of  mud-heaving,  were 
to  come  the  military  movements,  and  Dora  had  as  yet  no 
solution  to  her  problem.  Sickness,  or  a  sprained  ankle  even, 
might  lead  to  detection  ;  she  dared  not  get  into  the  hands  of 
the  doctors.  That  young  McCrae  had  forgotten  all  that  he 
had  learned  at  Fort  Washington  was  not  to  be  believed  for 
a  moment.  What  could  be  done  ?  When  her  wits,  hardly 
tasked,  failed  to  answer,  the  power  which  men  term  Fortune 
stepped  in  with  a  reply. 

The  day  after  they  reached  the  Miami,  Colonel  Oldham 
had  no  inspection,  and  his  men  lounged  about,  killing  that 
aboriginal  who  never  dies,  old  Time.  McCrae,  guided  by 
fortune,  went  to  the  field,  where  certain  of  the  regular 
troops  were  under  drill.  Among  them  was  a  fellow  whose 
heels  had  been  stolen  by  Bacchus.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  acute  "  right  wheel  "  and  "  left  wheel,"  but  kept  up  a 
chronic  wheel  in  all  directions.  The  eye  of  the  officer 
caught  him  ;  a  reprimand,  an  arrest,  a  sentence  of  confine- 
ment till  the  army  moved  again,  were  the  product  of  a 
moment.  Our  misclad  heroine  looked  and  listened,  at  first 
laughing,  for  such  curves  were  no  new  thing  in  her  forest 
geometry ;  then  troubled,  then  thoughtful;  lastly  hopeful, 
for  her  problem  seemed  less  perplexing.  Homer  might 
have  said  that  Minerva  came  to  her  aid  ;  we  ascribe  the 
help  to  another  spiritual  agent,  —  whiskey.  "  Will  not 
whiskey  explain  all  my  awkwardness  ?  "  said  she  to  herself. 

John  McCrae,  for  fear  of  a  quarrel,  had  always  shunned 
the  bottle.  That  night  John  was  beside  himself.  His  com- 
panions were  sobered  with  amazement.  "  McCrae,  my  boy, 
you  '11  catch  it  on  the  parade  to-morrow,"  were  words  that 
cheered  Dora's  heart,  as  she  suffered  the  abominable  liquid 


394  DORA  ML-CRAE. 

to  trickle  over  her  bosom,  and  sink  into  the  folds  of  her  gar- 
ments. 

The  morrow  came,  the  prophecy  was  realized,  such  slov- 
enly habits  of  musket-handling,  marching,  moving,  in  a 
young  man  four  weeks  under  drill,  could  not  escape  Old- 
ham's  eye.  The  goddess  of  whiskey,  however,  explained  it 
all.  "  He  shall  be  made  an  example  of,"  swore  tho  Colo- 
nel. "  It 's  the  first  time  he  was  ever  known  to  drink,"  said 
the  captain  at  his  elbow.  "So?  so?"  mused  the  com- 
mander. "  Call  him  here."  The  trembling  masker  came. 
"  McCrae,"  said  the  officer  kindly,  "  you  arc  plainly  drunk, 
but  I  'm  told  it  's  the  first  time.  You  will,  however,  con- 
sider yourself  so  far  under  arrest  as  not  to  appear  on  parade 
again  until  notice  is  sent  you."  Dora's  heart  beat  prayers 
and  thanksgivings  till  long  after  midnight. 

Shut  out  from  any  participation  in  the  exercises,  but  al- 
lowed to  witness  them,  McCrae  was  soon  so  well  acquainted 
with  what  had  to  be  done,  that,  when  called  to  the  ranks 
again,  while  Fort  Jefferson  was  slowly  rising  from  the  sods, 
no  more  ignorance  was  noticed  than  a  month  out  of  practice 
would  easily  account  for. 

It  was  a  weary  march,  that  of  St.  Glair's  doomed  army. 
Through  muddy,  timber-cumbered  roads,  often  making  only 
seven  miles  a  day,  with  scant  and  poor  food,  through  early 
snows  and  ceaseless  rains,  cold,  wet,  and  hungry,  the  troops 
toiled  on  from  Fort  Jefferson  toward  the  fatal  field.  And 
yet  this  march  was  the  brightest  period  of  Dora's  life.  She 
had  saved  her  brother,  so  she  trusted.  That  was  much,  but 
it  was  not  all.  On  such  a  march  as  that  we  speak  of,  strict 
discipline  could  not  be  observed,  and  the  members  of  the 
different  corps  were  frequently  during  the  day  intermingled. 
Now  it  happened  that,  on  the  way  from  Fort  Hamilton, 
McCrae  was  thrown  into  the  company  of  some  of  the  New 
Jersey  regulars,  or  rather  those  who  had  been  such  during 
the  Revolutionary  War.  Among  them  was  Captain  Kirk- 


DORA    McCRAE.  395 

wood,  an  old  veteran,  and  with  him,  in  a  manner  under  his 
charge,  a  young  man,  son  of  a  Mr.  Grey  of  Trenton,  who 
was  acting  as  a  volunteer.  Grey's  father  had  been  in  the 
New  Jersey  regiment  himself,  and  the  son  had  been  from 
his  boyhood  a  soldier  in  purpose  and  in  spirit ;  and  yet  a 
more  gentle  being  never  lived.  Fearless  of  danger,  calm 
in  battle,  he  was  horror-struck  by  the  rudeness,  the  profan- 
ity, the  vulgarity  of  a  camp,  and  had  taken  up  an  especial 
dislike  to  the  Western  soldiers  or  hunters. 

It  was  with  no  good-will,  therefore,  that  he  saw  McCrae 
rapidly  becoming  a  favorite  with  Kirkwood,  whose  tales  of 
Camden,  Guilford,  and  Eutaw  the  beardless  Kentuckian 
never  tired  of  hearing.  But  as  Grey  noticed  his  new  com- 
panion more  closely,  and  remarked  that  no  oaths,  no  vulgar 
slang,  no  bitter  taunts  or  foolish  boasting,  ever  passed  those 
almost  effeminate  lips,  as  he  thought  them,  he  began  to  fall 
in  with  the  old  Captain's  liking  for  the  boy,  and  before  the 
halt  at  Fort  Jefferson  took  place  the  two  youngsters  were  in- 
separable. Grey  was  amazed  and  charmed  by  the  spirit  of 
refinement  which  marked  the  wildest  sallies  of  his  comrade, 
and  grew  more  and  more  attached  to  the  gentle  savage. 
Dora, —  who  had  never  before  met  an  educated,  polished,  and 
yet  free-spoken  and  open-hearted  man, —  need  we  say  how 
her  brain  began  to  swim,  and  her  blood  to  tingle  ?  how  her 
ears  grew  deaf  to  old  Kirkwood's  yarns,  and  her  eyes  blind 
to  every  wonder  but  one  ?  For  the  first  time,  she  dreaded 
the  day  of  battle.  She  prayed  that  the  roads  might  grow 
deeper,  and  the  rains  mightier,  and  the  weary  march  endure 
for  ever.  But  her  prayers  even  could  not  prolong  it  for 
ever.  On  the  evening  of  the  3d  of  November,  the  armv 
reached  its  enamel-field,  and  McCrae  passed,  with  the  rest 
of  Oldham's  corps,  beyond  the  creek,  and  took  up  a  position 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  advance. 

The  night  of  the  3d  was   by  no  means  a  pleasant  one  for 
a  bivouac.      The  ground   had    been    covered   with  a  light 


396  BORA    M'-CRAE. 

snow  the  (lay  before,  which  had  partially  melted,  saturating 
the  earth  with  moisture.  As  night  came  on,  it  grew  more 
and  more  chill.  Crystals  of  ice  began  to  skim  over  the 
little  puddles,  and  stiffen  the  wet  ground.  The  soldier, 
whether  standing  or  lying,  had  his  choice  between  a  ducking 
snow  or  a  freezing  bog.  The  troops  had  for  some  days 
been  on  short  allowance  ;  and  as  the  wet  and  half-starved 
wretches  crowded  round  the  watch-fires,  happy  was  the 
man  who  could  find  a  dry,  comfortable  log  to  sit  on,  and  a 
chunk  to  support  his  freezing  feet.  Under  these  circum- 
stances our  heroine,  who  was  less  used  to  cold  and  wet  than 
her  companions,  and  whose  feelings  made  their  company 
distasteful,  determined  to  keep  in  motion,  and  went  to  Colo- 
nel Oldham  to  ask  the  privilege  of  acting  as  a  scout  ;  for  it 
was  rumored  among  the  militia  that  they  were  not  more 
than  fifteen  or  eighteen  miles  from  the  Miami  villages,  that 
the  creek  behind  them  was  a  branch  of  the  St.  Mary's,  and 
that  St.  Clair  thought  the  Indians  who  had  been  seen  north  of 
the  creek  when  the  army  first  came  in  sight  of  it  were  the 
advanced  guard  of  the  body  of  savages.  When  McCrae 
made  the  request  stated,  Oldham  readily  granted  it,  adding 
that  the  commander-in-chief  had  ordered  the  greatest  care 
to  be  taken  to  prevent  a  surprise,  and  had  directed  the 
woods  to  be  thoroughly  searched.  He  therefore  cautioned 
the  young  soldier  to  be  noiseless  and  watchful ;  to  use  the 
rifle  only  in  case  of  absolute  necessity,  and  to  trust  to  speed 
or  the  hunting-knife  in  case  of  danger.  "  A  select  body  of 
regulars  under  Captain  Slough,"  added  the  Colonel,  "  is  to 
take  a  position  a  mile  in  advance  of  us,  as  a  still  farther  pre- 
caution. Take  your  range  to  the  left,  move  slowly,  so  as 
to  come  to  them  about  midnight,  then  turn  on  your  track 
again,  and  be  in  the  camp  for  morning  muster." 

Dora  started  upon  her  solitary  way,  having  first  learned  the 
watch-cry  —  the  trill  of  the  little  owl  —  by  means  of  which 
the  scouts  were  to  know  one  another.  How  calm  her  feel- 


DORA    McCRAE.  397 

ings  as  she  moved  through  those  solemn  woods,  catching  now 
and  then  a  sight  of  the  half-starred,  half-clouded  heavens, 
through  the  leafless  branches !  A  few  weeks  had  changed 
the  girl  into  the  woman.  She  had  risked  her  life  to  save  her 
brother's  honor,  as  much  from  the  recklessness  of  her  Irish 
blood  and  backwoods  breeding,  as  from  any  higher  impulse  ; 
but  now  she  felt  a  serious  heroism  strengthening  every 
limb,  sending  a  nobler  life  into  every  fibre.  Love,  in  her 
true,  pure  nature,  was  not  that  selfish  passion  which  binds  us 
to  one  fellow-being  ;  it  was  that  divine  power  which,  open- 
ing the  spiritual  eyes,  and  changing  all  nature,  binds  to  all 
through  one.  She  went  upon  her  path  silently,  watchfully, 
not  for  her  own  sake,  —  not  because  Grey's  life  might 
depend  upon  her  care,  —  but  because  his  life  and  all  other 
lives  around  her  might  hang  upon  it. 

We  need  not  follow  her  through  those  tedious  hours. 
She  was  fearless,  because,  little  as  she  had  heard  of  relig- 
ion, she  knew,  by  a  sense  just  developed,  that  God  was  with 
her.  Toward  midnight  she  drew  near  to  the  outpost ;  glid- 
ing from  tree  to  tree,  she  approached  the  watch-fire  ;  no 
one  was  by  it,  the  logs  had  burned  to  cinders,  and  were  un- 
renewed.  Startled  by  this  desertion,  she  was  doubting 
whether  to  return  direct  to  the  militia  camp,  or  retrace 
her  steps  as  directed  by  the  Colonel,  when  a  hand  was  laid 
on  her  shoulder.  She  turned,  and  by  the  light  of  the  moul- 
dering embers  beheld  an  Indian,  his  finger  on  his  lips.  For 
an  instant  the  woman  unmanned  her.  During  that  instant  her 
rifle  and  knife  were  taken.  She  bowed  her  head  in  bitter 
silence,  awaiting  the  tomahawk.  The  Indian,  in  equal  si- 
lence, took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  away  ;  he  plainly 
thought  he  had  caught  a  coward.  After  a  little  while  the 
low  whining  of  a  fox  was  heard,  her  companion  repeated  it, 
and  in  a  few  moments  more  they  stood  amid  a  band  of  sav- 
ages. A  short  talk  in  Indian  followed  ;  her  hands  were 
then  bound  behind  her  back,  and  she  was  tied  to  a  tree,  with 

VOL.  i.  34 


398  DORA    McCRAE. 

a  significant  gesture,  which  told  her  that  a  word,  a  cry,  would 
insure  her  a  cleft  skull.  It  was  perfect  darkness.  But  near 
her  she  heard  the  sound  of  some  one  breathing  heavily,  as 
if  asleep  or  gagged.  Her  heart  grew  light  with  the  hope  of 
a  fellow-captive,  —  so  selfish  at  times  are  the  best  of  us. 
At  last  an  Indian,  bearing  a  torch,  drew  near;  and  as  the 
welcome  light  brought  the  world  back  to  her,  she  saw,  not 
one,  but  eight  captives,  each  bound  to  his  tree.  Some  wore 
the  careless  dress  of  the  militia,  others  the  uniform  of  the 
United  States  :  and  as  the  torch-bearer  drew  nearer  to  where 
she  stood,  examining  the  bands  of  the  captives,  or  inquiring 
as  to  St.  Clair's  strength  and  position,  and  as  not  only 
forms,  but  features,  grew  distinct  in  the  glare,  Dora  recog- 
nized with  a  kind  of  horrid  joy  the  person  and  face  of  Grey. 

Me  had  been  one  of  the  volunteers  under  Captain  Slough. 
That  officer  had  placed  him,  with  others,  upon  the  outskirts  of 
his  party,  as  sentinels,  having  been  convinced,  soon  after 
taking  up  his  position,  that  the  savages  were  numerous  in  his 
vicinity.  Grey,  like  many,  unused  to  Indian  tricks,  had 
been  taken  noiselessly  ;  some  had  fired  their  guns  and  been 
killed.  Slough,  some  time  before  Dora  reached  his  watch- 
fire,  finding  clear  proof  of  the  enemy's  force  in  these  ire-' 
quent  captures,  had  returned  to  make  his  report  to  General 
Butler. 

Dora's  first  sensation  was  a  horrid  joy,  as  we  have  said  : 
but  the  horror  soon  outweighed  the  joy.  She  could  have 
died  and  smiled  in  death  ;  its  worst  pang  would  have  been, 
that  her  brother  after  all  was  not  saved  :  —  but  that  he 
should  die  !  A  faintness  never  felt  before  in  her  young 
limbs  came  over  them.  Excitement,  horror,  cold,  fatigue, 
had  weakened  soul  and  body.  When  Mechecunnaqua  — 
for  the  torch-bearer  was  the  Little  Turtle  himself — came 
to  the  tree  where  they  had  tied  her,  she  was  hanging  sense- 
less in  her  bonds. 

The  chief  looked  amazed  ;  the  pale  lips  showed  no  sham- 


DORA    McCRAE.  399 

ming ;  he  laughed  silently  in  scorn  of  the  Longknife  who 
had    been  scared   to  death  ;  —  or  was  it  the  faintness  of  a 
wound  ?     He  ordered  the  belt  which  held  her  to  the  tree  to 
be  loosened,  the  wrists  to  be  set  free,  and,  laying  the  body 
upon  the  earth,  threw  back  the  hunting-shirt  to  discover.    A 
grunt  of  extraordinary  astonishment  burst  from  the  group  of 
bending  scalp-locks,  for  one  glance  showed  the  sex  of  the 
captive.     At  that  moment  came  messengers  who  reported 
the  white  army  alarmed  and  in  motion  ;  for  Slough,  on  his 
way  in,  had  informed  Colonel  Oldham  that  the  foe  were  near 
in  force,  and  that  they  should  certainly  be  attacked  in  the 
morning  or  sooner,  and  Oldham,  thinking  the  same  from  the 
reports  of  his  spies,  had  detached  several  small  parties  to 
bring  in  the  scouts.     The  Little  Turtle,  who  knew  of  St. 
Glair's  habit  of  getting  his  troops  under  arms  before  daylight, 
and  then  dismissing  them  to  breakfast,  had  planned  —  what 
he  actually  performed  —  a  surprise  between  daybreak  and 
sunrise,  when  all  would  be  off  guard  ;  but  this  information, 
that  St.  Clair  was  alarmed  and  in  motion,  made  him  fear  his 
whole  plan  abortive.     Hastily  directing  a  follower  to  send  a 
squaw  to  the  young  pale-face,  he  at  once  went,  therefore,  to 
re-arrange  his  red  men.     One  captive,  and  that  a  woman, 
was  of  small  interest  compared  with  the  news  just  delivered, 
and  Dora,  still  insensible,  was  left  deserted  on  the  icy  leaves. 
At  last,  life  painfully  came  again,  —  then  recollection  ;  she 
moved,  —  she  was  free  ;  she  tried  to  pierce  the  darkness,  but 
could  not.     Where  was  she  ?     How  came  she  free  ?     Pres- 
ently she  heard  that  heavy  breathing  again.     Reassured,  she 
rose,  and,  directed  by  the  sound,  reached  the  tree  where  she 
thought  Grey  was   tied.      Whispering  in  the  captive's  ear 
that  it  was  a  friend,  with  trembling  fingers  she  took  the  gag 
from  his  mouth.     She  had  been  right ;  it  was  he.     A  few 
minutes  more,  and  he  too  was  at  liberty.     He  had  seen  the 
body  of  a  captive  laid  upon  the  ground  not  far  from  him,  but 
had  not  seen  the  face  amid  the  circle  of  savages.    Deep  was 


400  DORA    M-CRAE. 

his  gratitude  and  joy  to  find  his  deliverer  to  be  his  dearest 
friend  ;  but  how  much  deeper  the  joy  of  that  deliverer! 

And  now  they  would  have  freed  the  others,  but  again  a 
torch  was  seen  ;  the  squaws  were  grumbling  on  their  path  in 
search  of  the  pale-face.  Not  knowing  whither  they  went, 
the  two  Americans  glided  away. 

They  took,  fortunately  for  them,  the  very  opposite  course 
to  that  which  they  would  have  taken  had  they  known  the 
points  of  the  compass,  and  so  went  directly  north.  It  was 
fortunate  for  them,  because  the  Indians,  when  Little  Turtle 
had  at  length  prevailed  in  the  council  soon  after  midnight, 
had  drawn  in  close  about  the  devoted  army,  and  when  Dora 
first  saw  by  the  stars  the  direction  they  had  taken,  they  were 
far  behind  the  foe.  They  then  changed  their  course,  and, 
judging  the  savages  were  between  them  and  their  comrades, 
made  a  detour  to  the  west,  until,  shortly  before  daybreak, 
they  struck  the  creek  on  which  St.  Clair  had  encamped,  but 
some  distance  below  him.  This  they  crossed,  to  escape  any 
flanking  party  of  red  men  ;  and  soon  heard  the  drums  of 
the  regiments,  then  about  being  disbanded  for  the  morning. 

"  Thank  God,  they  are  alive  and  up,"  cried  Grey. 
"  Slough  gave  the  alarm,  and  the  old  man  will  have  the 
red-skins  now  in  spite  of  his  crutches."  And  Slough  had 
given  the  alarm,  but  to  heedless  ears.  He  had  reported  to 
General  Butler,  as  was  proper,  his  own  conviction,  and  that 
of  Colonel  Oldham,  that  the  enemy  was  before  them  in  great 
force,  and  would  attack  in  the  morning,  or  earlier.  Butler, 
an  old  Indian  trader  and  hunter,  despised  the  regulars  with 
whom  lie  acted,  whenever  Indians  were  concerned  ;  the 
militia  he  despised  for  their  insubordination  ;  St.  Clair  he 
despised  also,  as  a  worn-out  invalid,  —  indeed,  they  were  not 
at  that  time  on  speaking  terms.  Slough  and  Oldham  commu- 
nicated nothing  definite,  — only  their  own  convictions.  What 
were  they  worth  ?  Butler  sent  no  word  to  St.  Clair,  —  took 
no  measures  to  prevent  a  surprise.  A  brave  man  himself, 


DORA    McCRAE.  401 

he  would  have  felt  like  a  coward  to  alarm  the  whole  army 
on  such  grounds.  His  courage  cost  many  lives.  Had  St. 
Clair  received  the  accounts  of  Slough  and  Oldham,  he  would 
have  attacked  the  Indians,  and  Mechecunnaqua's  plans  would 
have  failed. 

As  Grey  and  his  comrade  drew  nearer  to  the  army,  they 
moved  with  greater  stealth  and  care.  Day  had  now  fairly 
broken.  Presently,  far  to  their  left,  were  heard  yells,  shouts, 
rifles,  and  that  sea-like  sound  of  many  feet  shaking  the  earth. 
In  a  moment  more  the  drums  beat  again  ;  and  in  front  of 
the  fugitives  the  clash  and  hubbub  of  ranks  forming  sud- 
denly rose  on  the  frosty  air. 

"  It  is  the  attack,"  said  Grey,  pausing  ;  "  but  what  are 
those  sounds  to  the  left  ?  " 

"  The  yells  of  the  savages  ;  the  cries  of  the  Kentuck- 
ians,"  answered  McCrae.  "  The  militia  has  been  driven 
back." 

Dora  was  right.  Oldham,  waiting  for  orders,  had  taken 
no  efficient  steps  to  prevent  a  surprise.  His  corps  were 
taken  unawares,  and,  rushing  back  upon  the  regulars,  threw 
all  into  confusion,  and  lost  the  day.  We  need  not  follow 
the  details  of  the  battle  ;  they  are  known  but  too  well. 
When  the  fugitives  of  our  tale  reached  the  field,  all  was  con- 
fusion. The  survivors  of  McCrae's  company  were  scattered 
wherever  there  was  shelter.  Kirk  wood  was  killed.  Through 
the  dreadful  carnage  of  those  three  hours  and  a  half,  the 
friends,  seizing  the  arms  of  the  fallen,  fought  side  by  side. 
At  last  the  word  spread  that  the  troops  were  to  retreat. 
"  Like  a  drove  of  bullocks,"  as  a  spectator  says,*  the 
survivors  pressed  to  the  right.  In  the  press,  Dora  found 
herself  alone.  She  struggled  forward  with  what  was  thought 
the  despair  of  terror,  —  he  was  not  there  ;  she  lagged  amid 
the  hastening  crowd  with  what  men  deemed  the  apathy  of 

*  Van  Cleve,  American  Pioneer,  II.  150. 
34* 


402  DORA    McCRAE. 

cowardice,  but  she  could  not  see  him  ;  she  turned,  and  strove 
madly  to  stem  the  human  torrent,  and  die  with  him  under 
the  tomahawks  of  the  pursuing  savages,  but  the  torrent  bore 
her  along.  Once  more  she  pressed  forward  ;  he  was  strong, 
active,  —  he  was  in  the  advance.  She  ran  till  her  limbs, 
which  had  not  rested  for  so  many  hours,  failed  her,  and  she 
sank  by  the  road-side.  The  flying  troops  still  hurried  by, — 
men,  women,  and  boys, —  some  on  foot,  some  on  jaded  horses. 
The  yells  of  the  foe,  who,  stopping  to  scalp  those  they  slew, 
followed  slowly,  were  just  audible.  Amid  the  crowd  of  ter- 
rified runners  she  could  see  no  fo"rm  like  his.  The  tide  of 
life,  that  had  once  before  that  morning  ebbed,  again  flowed 
backward.  The  hideous  scalp-shrieks  drew  nearer.  She 
closed  her  eyes,  and  resigned  herself  once  more  to  death. 

A  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder.  She  started,  looked, 
sprang  up  ;  —  it  was  Grey,  but  so  deathly  pale  she  scarce 
knew  him.  What  was  it  ?  A  wound,  a  ball  through  the 
shoulder  ;  his  dress  was  dripping  with  blood.  He  had  sought 
his  saviour  of  the  morning  in  front  and  rear,  had  pressed 
too  near  the  enemy  ;  a  rifle  had  sped  its  ball  close  to  his 
heart.  In  an  instant  Dora's  wearied  limbs  seemed  rested, 
even  as  Grey  sank  exhausted  by  her  side.  The  scalp- 
screams  came  nearer.  She  gave  one  glance  at  him, —  he 
was  senseless  ;  one  at  the  chances  of  escape  near  by,  which 
her  own  fate  had  never  led  her  to  look  at.  Snow  still  cov- 
ered the  earth,  but  here  and  there  were  patches  of  bare 
leaves.  At  a  little  distance  was  an  old  moss-grown  tree- 
skeleton,  fallen  half  a  century  before.  Many  a  time  had 
Dora  hidden  in  such,  in  her  childhood.  A  few  steps  carried 
her  to  it  ;  it  was,  as  she  guessed,  hollow.  She  returned, 
lifted  with  her  whole  life-energy  the  body  of  him  she  loved, 
and  bore  it  to  the  rotten  log.  With  great  difficulty  she 
brought  back  his  senses  by  the  help  of  the  snow  around 
them  ;  bound  his  wound  ;  pointed  out  his  danger,  and  the 
only  place  of  refuge  ;  and,  just  as  the  Indians  appeared  in 


DORA    McCRAE.  403 

the  road  almost  beside  them,  filled  the  open  end  of  their 
hiding-place  with  the  leaves  that  had  before  been  hidden 
within  it  by  November  winds. 

It  was  a  happy  thought  thus  to  push  those  within  out,  rath- 
er than  to  draw  up  those  that  lay  about  the  opening.  Dora 
and  he  whom  she  had  twice  saved  lay  feet  to  feet,  unable  to 
speak  ;  but  though  speech  was  denied  them,  hearing  was 
not.  There  were  steps,  —  voices  ;  nearer  and  nearer  they 
came.  Low  guttural  sounds  were  made  just  above  them. 
Presently  two  or  more  Indians,  invited  by  the  mossy  seat, 
sat  down  over  their  heads  ;  then  they  heard  a  gurgle  as  the 
whiskey-canteen  of  some  dead  regular  was  applied  to  savage 
lips,  —  then  laughter  and  yells.  Presently  a  white  man's 
voice  —  perhaps  Simon  Girty's,  he  is  said  to  have  been 
there*  —  asked  what  was  in  that  log  they  were  on.  The 
tipsy  Indian  stuck  his  hand  into  the  hollow,  and  answered, 
"  Leaves,  leaves." 

Ere  long  the  love  of  blood  outgrew  that  of  the  fire-water, 
and  the  green  log  covered  less  agitated  hearts.  Then  came 
the  sounds  of  the  returning  victors,  and  then  the  silence 
of  night.  The  fugitives  ventured  forth.  The  cold  earth 
and  mouldering  wood  had  stopped  the  bleeding  wound,  but 
Grey  was  still  weak  from  the  blood  he  had  lost.  They  both 
needed  food ;  they  had  not  eaten  for  twenty -four  hours. 
Dora  silently  disappeared.  She  went  to  the  corpse-cumbered 
road  ;  she  took  flour,  meat,  spirits,  from  the  bodies  of  the 
slain,  —  for  very  many  of  the  army  in  the  absence  of  legal 
supplies  had  provided  illegal.  She  tore  from  the  dim-seen 
dead  men  linen  to  make  bandages  for  him  that  lived  ;  she 
took  their  coats  for  his  bed. 

Four  days  passed.  The  Indians,  loaded  with  scalps  and 
spoils,  had  gone  northward.  The  whites  were  getting  their 
breath  and  spinning  their  yarns  in  Forts  Hamilton  and  Wash- 

*  Stone's  Life  of  Brant,  I.  310. 


404  DORA    McCRAE. 

ington.  The  vultures,  and  the  buzzards,  and  the  carrion- 
crows  possessed  the  battle-field.  Grey,  his  strength  almost 
restored,  had  gone  out  to  look  at  the  traces  of  death,  while 
his  comrade,  having  now  for  the  first  time  dared  to  light  a 
fire,  prepared  some  civilized  food.  The  young  officer  wan- 
dered some  way  toward  the  ground  of  the  engagement,  till, 
warned  by  weakness,  he  turned  again.  Sauntering  along, 
in  that  luxury  of  laziness  known  only  to  the  valetudinarian, 
he  saw  suddenly  a  figure  before  him.  It  was  McCrae,  whom 
he  had  left  over  the  kettle,  only  so  differently  dressed. 

"  Where,  McCrae,  did  you  get  that  ?  "  cried  he. 

"Ha!  you  know  me!"  said  the  other,  with  a  savage, 
reckless  gravity,  that  astonished  Grey  beyond  measure. 

"  Know  you  ?  My  dear  John,  1  have  reason  to  know  you. 
But  why  this  masquerade  ?  Is  breakfast  ready  ?  " 

McCrae  stared  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  met  a  mad- 
man. "  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  where  have  you  seen 
me  ?  what  do  you  know  of  me  ?  " 

Grey  thought  the  gay  young  woodsman  playing  a  part,  in 
his  joy  for  their  safety  ;  so,  putting  on  a  part  himself,  he  re- 
plied, "  You  're  mad,  John,  raving  crazy.  Our  escapes,  our 
wounds,  our  starving,  our  freezing,  have  turned  your  head, 
John.  I  must  bleed  you,  my  boy." 

The  boy  —  it  was  John  himself — stood  stupefied.  He 
had  from  his  hiding-place  gone  back  to  Cincinnati ;  had 
learned  that  John  McCrae  had  marched  with  his  company  ; 
had  guessed  his  sister's  sacrifice  ;  and  when  the  breath  of 
the  defeat  reached  him,  stung  into  heroism  by  despair,  rea- 
son, love,  shame,  fear,  had  gone  to  seek  her,  —  to  die  if 
she  were  dead,  if  she  were  a  captive  to  redeem  her  with 
his  own  life.  At  Grey's  last  words  a  light  broke  upon  him. 

"  Have  you  known  me  ?  "  cried  he,  eagerly.  "  Where 
am  I  ?  where  did  we  freeze  and  starve  ?  where  arc  we  ? 
Take  me  to  her  !  " 

The  young  officer  began  to  think  his  comrade  indeed  in- 


DORA    McCRAE.  405 

sane.  "  Come,"  said  he,  taking  McCrae's  arm,  "we'll  go 
to  our  log." 

They  came  to  the  spot  :  Dora  had  gone  for  water. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  ?  "  said  Grey. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  replied  the  other,  fiercely.  "  I  'II 
have  her,  or  your  life." 

Grey  scarce  knew  whether  to  weep  or  laugh ;  he  still 
thought  it  all  pretence,  so  he  laughed.  John  sprang  at  him, 
grappled  him,  they  rolled  together  in  the  leaves.  At  that 
instant  a  clear,  ringing  voice  came  up  the  little  hollow, 
charming  the  echoes  into  silence. 

"  It  is  she,"  cried  John,  springing  to  his  feet. 

"  It  is  you,"  said  Grey,  almost  speechless. 

Slowly  the  young  man's  eyes  turned  from  the  brother  to 
the  sister,  from  the  sister  to  the  brother.  He  was  himself 
going  crazy.  Dora  embraced  her  counterfeit. 

Why  dwell  on  what  is  known  ?  The  secret  was  out,  — 
the  maiden  overpowered  with  shame,  the  soldier  sick  at 
heart  with  gratitude,  admiration,  and  love. 

John  redeemed  his  character  under  Wayne  ;  and  for 
Dora,  —  are  there  not  Greys  in  New  Jersey  until  to-day  ? 
Who  was  their  ancestress  ? 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

AN    INCIDENT    OF    WAYNE'S    VICTORY. 


AMONG  the  early  settlers  of  Western  Pennsylvania  were 
several  Highland  families,  and  naturally  enough  where  there 
were  Highland  men,  there  were  Campbells.  One  of  them, 
Arthur  Campbell,  the  son  of  "  old  man  Arthur,"  who  lived 
in  Alleghany  County,  is  the  hero  of  our  sketch. 

The  boy  was  as  active,  strong,  and  intelligent  as  the  de- 
scendant of  mountaineers,  himself  a  dweller  among  moun- 
tains, ought  to  be.  No  summer  field  of  grass  or  wheat,  no 
winter  forest  of  massive  trunks  that  were  to  be  chopped 
and  split  into  fire-wood,  no  wild-cat  of  the  hills,  nor  fish  of 
the  stream,  could  tire  out  or  elude  him.  He  was  early 
trained  to  follow  the  beasts  of  the  wilderness,  and  to  track 
its  wild  savages  to  their  wigwams.  His  childhood  was 
amused  with  tales  of  the  days  of  Braddock,  and  his  youth 
instructed  by  the  study  of  the  frontier  campaigns  of  Wash- 
ington, Armstrong,  and  Bouquet.  At  sixteen,  no  keener 
scout,  no  stouter  wood-chopper,  no  bolder  hunter,  was  to  bo 
found  about  the  Salt  Springs  of  the  Kiskiminitas,  than  the 
young  Scotch  Highlander.  But  Arthur  was  too  ambitious 
to  rest  content  with  even  the  renown  that  filled  a  county. 
He  had  heard  of  Boone  and  the  pioneers  of  Kentucky  ;  he 
had  read  of  the  exploits  of  George  Rogers  Clark  in  the  far 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  407 

Northwest;  and  when  at  Pittsburg,  in  the  winter  of  1787- 
88,  he  had  seen  and  talked  with  some  of  the  first  settlers 
of  Marietta,  who  were  then  busy  at  "  Sumrill's,"  on  the 
Youghiogeny,  building  the  boats  which  were  to  convey  them, 
when  spring  opened,  to  the  vast  regions  of  the  Ohio,  which 
the  whites  had  as  yet  spared.  His  imagination  and  his  van- 
ity were  both  excited  to  the  highest  point,  and  he  longed  to 
make  himself  known,  as  Logan,  and  Clark,  and  Putnam 
were  known  already.  Under  these  impulses,  young  Arthur, 
in  the  spring  of  1788,  about  the  time  he  supposed  Putnam's 
band  would  be  descending  the  river,  determined  to  take  his 
rifle  and  knife,  and  make  his  way  by  land  to  the  mouth  of 
the  Muskingum,  and  rejoiced  in  his  soul  silently,  as  he 
thought  how  wonder-stricken  the  Dodges  and  Captain  De- 
voll  would  be  to  see  him  at  their  location  before  them  ;  and 
how  he  would  be  made  known  to  the  general,  and  would 
become  a  scout  for  the  party,  and  would  be  chosen  to  lead 
some  band  against  the  Indians,  who,  as  every  one  said, 
would  oppose  the  new-comers ;  and  how  he  would  surprise 
a  great  band  of  Shawanese,  and  be  the  hero  of  a  terrible 
struggle  ;  and  so  on,  and  so  on ;  the  whole  winding  up  with 
his  marriage  to  one  of  the  pretty  girls  that  were  coming  out 
from  New  England  when  all  was  ready  for  them.  So  one 
morning  young  Arthur,  with  a  strange  big  lump  in  his 
throat  that  kept  him  swallowing  every  half-minute,  told  his 
father  and  mother,  and  his  dear  little  sister  Peggy,  that  he 
was  going  to  hunt  for  a  day  or  two,  and  they,  thinking 
nothing  of  it,  as  it  was  not  yet  ploughing  weather,  kissed 
him  as  usual,  wished  him  good  luck,  and  went  on  quietly 
about  their  chopping  and  spinning.  He,  poor  boy,  looked 
back  at  the  old  man,  with  his  Scotch  bonnet  thrown  back  as 
he  wielded  the  axe,  and  at  the  window,  behind  which  they 
were  working  and  singing,  he  could  hear  Peggy's  voice,  and 
his  heart  almost  gave  way  ;  but  vanity  and  the  love  of  enter- 
prise are,  after  all,  stronger  in  a  lad  of  sixteen  than  home  ties 
or  brother's  love,  and  he  tearfully  turned  to  the  forest  again. 


408  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

lie  apprehended  no  danger.  The  animals  of  the  wilder- 
ness he  had  no  fear  of;  the  Indians  were  friendly  or  neu- 
tral ;  and  though  the  way  was  unknown  to  him,  he  had  a 
general"  notion  of  the  direction  in  which  the  mouth  of  the 
Muskingum  lay,  and,  confident  in  his  powers  as  a  woods- 
man, crossed  the  Allcghany  in  a  canoe  which  lie  used  when 
on  his  common  expeditions  to  the  North,  intending  '.o  keep 
northwest  until  he  should  pass  Beaver  Creek,  and  thence 
hoping,  by  nearly  a  direct  west  course,  to  strike  the  Tuscara- 
was  in  the  vicinity  of  old  Fort  Laurens,  from  which  point  he 
would  follow  the  waters  down  to  Fort  Harmar,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  "Elk  Eye." 

His  plan  was  well  laid,  and  would  have  succeeded,  proba- 
bly, so  as  to  bring  him  to  the  desired  point  about  the  first  of 
April,  but  for  one  thing,  —  the  fall  of  heavy  rains  about  the 
heads  of  Beaver  Creek.  Owing  to  these,  when  our  young 
adventurer  reached  the  banks  of  that  stream,  he  found  it  an 
impassable  torrent ;  but  he  could  not  wait,  for  the  very 
waters  which  opposed  him  would  help  forward  the  boatmen 
whose  arrival  he  longed  to  anticipate.  So,  hastily,  too  has- 
tily, he  fashioned  n  raft  of  the  floating  logs  and  boughs 
which  were  rolling  by,  and  with  his  only  treasures,  his  rifle 
and  powder-horn,  trusted  himself  to  the  stream,  which  he 
.  hoped  to  cross  gradually  by  the  aid  of  his  setting-pole,  and 
the  eddies  which  here  and  there  sucked  shoreward.  Alas ! 
those  eddies,  like  many  a  seeming  aid  in  the  voyage  of  life, 
were  caused  by  and  concealed  deadly  dangers.  The  one 
which  Arthur  tried  to  make  serviceable  was  the  result  of  a 
huge  stump,  which  caught  the  drift,  and  held  out  to  the  nav- 
igator a  tempting  harbour.  With  his  whole  strength  he 
tried  to  make  the  proffered  landing-place,  and  in  trying 
failed  to  see  the  ragged  remnants  of  the  huge  boughs,  which, 
reaching  up  from  the  submerged  trunk  of  the  prostrate  syc- 
amore, were  grinning  at  him,  like  shark's  teeth,  from  just 
beneath  the  surface.  Another  push,  and  he  will  be  in  the 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  409 

eddy  and  ashore  ;  —  yes,  but  for  them.  He  puts  his  shoulder 
to  the  pole  ;  the  rude  raft  swings  round,  the  shark's  teeth 
seize  it;  the  rushing  waters  tug  and  tear  at  it;  the  grape- 
vines, loosely  knotted,  give  way ;  the  severed  logs  again 
strike  out,  each  on  its  own  voyage,  and  among  them  is  strug- 
gling for  life,  for  room  to  breathe,  the  young  builder  of  cas- 
tles in  the  air. 

Arthur  would  have  been  in  no  real  danger,  however,  for 
he  was  as  much  at  home  in  water  as  on  land,  had  he  not 
clung  to  his  rifle.  With  the  instinct  of  a  woodsman  he  had 
seized  it  the  instant  he  felt  the  raft  strike,  and  heard  the 
bands  which  held  it  crack ;  and  amid  drift  and  raft  and  eddy 
he  still  clung  to  it,  struggling  for  life ;  for  his  life  was  in  his 
breath  and  his  rifle,  and  he  strove  to  save  both.  A  few 
moments,  however,  proved  it  impossible  to  do  so,  and  with 
a  groan,  more  of  indignation  than  regret,  he  let  go  his  hold 
and  struck  out  for  the  shore. 

And  now  he  was  once  more  on  land,  —  not  very  dry  land, 
to  be  sure,  for  a  cold,  penetrating,  drizzling  rain  was  falling  ; 
but  beyond  the  reach  of  the  mad  waters  at  any  rate.  Yes, 
he  was  on  land,  but  how  helpless  !  how  hopeless  !  No  gun, 
no  food,  his  powder  afloat,  no  means  of  kindling  a  fire  or 
securing  a  meal,  and  in  spite  of  himself  shivering  to  his  in- 
most bones.  Two  hours  he  had  stood  in  the  water  making 
his  unlucky  vessel,  and  the  warmth  which  had  been  pro- 
duced by  his  exertions  in  trying  to  land  could  not  counter- 
balance the  physical  depression  and  exhaustion  which  those 
two  hours  had  produced,  and  the  shock  of  the  ice-bath  that 
had  followed.  Had  Arthur  been  an  old  hand  in  the  wilder- 
ness, he  would  have  spent  five  minutes  in  making  up  his 
mind  as  to  the  nearest  point  where  food  and  warmth  could 
be  had,  and,  without  awaiting  still  further  exhaustion  from 
famine  and  cold,  would  have  used  all  his  remaining  strength 
and  energy  to  reach  that  point.  Had  he  done  so,  he  would 
in  two  hours  have  been  relieved,  for  he  was  not  more  than 

VOL.  i.  35 


410  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

five  miles  above  the  site  of  Fort  Mclntosh.  But  Arthur 
was  not  an  old  practical  pioneer,  an  indomitable  Boone,  or 
all-conquering  Logan,  —  he  was  a  young  castle-builder, 
whose  airy  towers  had  all  been  laid  low  by  the  swollen 
waters  of  the  Big  Beaver,  and  in  utter  despair  he  threw 
himself  upon  the  ground,  and  regretted  that  he  had  been 
able  to  save  his  life  from  the  flood. 

How  long  he  lay  there,  half  insensible  with  cold  and 
hopelessness,  he  never  knew.  When  he  arose,  as  he  re- 
membered afterwards,  it  was  night,  and  fever-pains  were 
shooting  through  every  limb,  and  fever-phantoms  were  be- 
ginning to  whirl  their  waltzes  in  his  brain.  Then  all  to  him 
was  darkness ;  nor  was  it  ever  known  whither  he  went  or 
how  he  lived  during  the  next  three  days.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  naked  as  he  was  born,  thin  as  the  skeleton  pic- 
ture of  death,  and  still  raving  with  delirium,  he  swam  off  to 
a  boat  which  was  floating  down  the  Ohio,  bound  to  the 
Beargrass  settlements  near  the  Falls,  and  was  with  difficul- 
ty secured  by  the  emigrants  on  board. 

Among  those  emigrants  were  two  women  who  nursed  the 
young  sufferer,  until  at  last  nature  effected  a  partial  cure. 
A  partial  cure,  we  say,  for  neither  nature  nor  art,  nursing, 
medicine  nor  rest,  could  ever  make  Arthur  Campbell  again 
wholly  what  he  had  been  before.  His  constitution,  just  at 
the  age  when  most  susceptible,  had  been  so  shaken,  so  shat- 
tered, by  excitement,  exposure,  cold,  hunger,  disease,  and 
delirium,  that,  though  he  lived  till  within  a  few  years,  to 
the  age  of  seventy-two,  he  never  recovered  the  effects  of  his 
trip  to  the  Beaver.  His  nerves  were  so  affected,  that  the 
slightest  excitement  or  anxiety  caused  him  to  quiver  like  an 
aspen  ;  and  his  spirit  was  for  the  time  so  changed,  that 
when,  in  the  midsummer  of  1788,  he  found  his  way  back 
from  the  kind  friends  who  had  saved  his  life  to  his  old 
home  on  the  Kiskiminitas,  his  parents  and  Peggy,  who  had 
long  mourned  him  as  dead,  found  him,  though  living,  not 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIAC.  411 

the  same  ;  the  frank,  active,  hopeful,  energetic  boy  had  be- 
come a  shy,  dependent,  moping  hypochondriac.  And  so  he 
remained  for  years, — yes,  for  life. 

The  settlement  of  the  West  went  on.  Harmar  marched 
upon  his  unlucky  and  inglorious  errand  to  the  confederated 
tribes  of  the  Maumee ;  St.  Clair  gathered  his  forces,  and 
scolded,  and  limped  to  and  fro,  and  inch  by  inch  penetrated 
the  wilderness,  and  then,  stricken  as  by  a  thunderbolt,  was 
driven  back  to  the  old  stations ;  and  all  the  while,  amid  the 
whole  bustle  of  frontier  enlistment  and  frontier  panic,  Ar- 
thur Campbell  was  as  unmoved  and  as  uninterested  as  the 
old  house-dog  by  the  hearth.  His  energy  seemed  dead  ; 
his  vanity,  his  ambition,  seemed  dead  ;  he  was  silent  to  all, 
and  shunned  even  Peggy's  company  and  sympathy.  But 
he  was  also  far  more  unselfish  than  formerly ;  was  active 
for  others,  if  not  for  himself;  could  not  talk  to  any  one,  but 
would  work  for  all.  Not  a  day  passed  but  the  sister  found 
that  the  hand  of  the  speechless  brother  had  done  some 
work,  removed  some  obstacle,  sketched  some  improvement, 
which  would  have  tried  her  strength,  or  patience,  or  inge- 
nuity. 

At  length,  in  the  summer  of  1792,  the  troops  of  Wayne 
began  to  gather  for  the  final  conflict  with  the  red  men  of 
the  Northwest.  From  the  Atlantic  to  the  Mississippi,  men 
were  active  during  that  summer  in  the  great  cause  of  white 
supremacy  ;  the  old  feudal  proverb  having  been  in  our  day 
a  little  varied,  so  as  to  make  it  read,  "  White  makes  right." 
Among  the  candidates  for  admission  into  the  legion  of  Mad 
Anthony  came  forward,  to  the  amazement  of  all,  Arthur 
Campbell,  the  victim  of  Big  Beaver.  Some  hoped  it  was  a 
proof  that  all  was  well  with  him  again  ;  others  knew  it  was 
his  insanity  come  back ;  others,  again,  thought  he  might 
have  motives  different  from  ambition,  or  gain,  or  the  prompt- 
ings of  a  crazy  intellect.  Among  these  last  was  Peggy. 
She,  poor  child,  was  from  the  first  all  of  a  flutter  with  the 


412  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

enlisting  and  the  drumming,  the  marching  and  sharp-shoot- 
ing, which,  under  the  orders  of  Washington  and  Wayne, 
filled  the  West  of  Pennsylvania  that  summer  with  powder- 
smoke  and  shouts.  Especially  was  she  fluttered,  being  just 
eighteen,  by  the  eyes  and  the  movements  of  a  young  offi- 
cer who  was  sent  into  their  neighbourhood  to  gather  up 
men  for  the  battle-field.  Poor  Peggy,  who  had  been  flint 
to  all  men  in  leggings  and  hunting-shirts,  was  mere  ice  to 
the  lieutenant  in  his  regimentals;  she  melted  and  warmed 
at  once.  This  Arthur  had  seen  ;  and  she  knew,  though  he 
said  not  a  word,  that  he  had  seen  it.  And  when  the  young 
officer  urged  her  to  wed  him,  and  she,  trembling  and  de- 
lighted, promised  to  follow  him,  if  need  be,  down  the  mouth 
of  the  Little  Turtle,  or  into  the  inmost  fold  of  Blue  Jacket, 
she  felt  that,  somehow,  Arthur  heard  every  syllable  she 
said,  felt  every  throb  of  her  heart ;  so  that  when  all  others 
were  at  a  loss  for  the  enlistment  of  the  invalid,  Peggy  knew 
it  was  because  she  had  enlisted  first. 

We  need  not  dwell  on  the  partings  and  marchings  ;  the 
tiresome  winter  at  Legionville ;  the  endless  drillings  at  Hob- 
son's  Choice,  just  below  the  little  village  of  Cincinnati  ;  or 
the  advance  into  the  wilderness,  where  the  second  long 
winter,  that  of  1793-94,  was  spent  by  the  cautious  "  black 
snake  "  of  the  Americans.  During  the  whole  monotonous 
movements  of  the  army,  Peggy  lived  in  a  long  honey-moon, 
and  Arthur  performed  what  duties  fell  to  his  share  with  un- 
deviating  regularity.  He  had  joined  the  army,  not  as  a 
regular  soldier,  but  as  a  scout  or  spy,  for  in  that  calling  he 
fell  himself  at  home  ;  he  dared  not  trust  his  nerves  in  com- 
pany, but  alone  no  granite  hill  could  be  firmer.  The  eye 
of  a  comrade  could  at  any  moment  make  him  quiver,  but 
an  enemy  he  had  no  dread  of,  and  could  face  and  fight  un- 
moved. At  length,  late  in  July  of  1794,  the  mounted  men 
of  Kentucky,  under  Scott,  joined  the  main  body  at  Green- 
ville, and  the  day  of  contest  drew  near. 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  413 

On  the  4th  of  August,  the  army  being  then  about 
twenty-five  miles  beyond  Fort  Recovery,  the  young  officer 
to  whom  our  friend  Peggy  had  been  married  was  ordered 
with  a  party  in  pursuit  of  some  Indians,  whose  traces  had 
been  seen  near  the  camp,  and  Arthur  obtained  leave  to  go 
with  him  as  a  spy.  This  leave,  however,  was  not  had  with- 
out effort,  for  the  Highlander,  moody  and  silent,  had  more 
than  one  enemy  in  the  camp ;  and  on  that  day,  Bill  Strong, 
who  was  from  the  neighbourhood  in  which  the  Campbells 
lived,  and  had  been  an  old  admirer  of  Peggy,  had  par- 
ticular reasons  for  wishing  her  brother  to  remain  with  the 
army. 

Bill  was  one  of  those  men  who  are,  unfortunately,  too 
common  in  armies,  and  especially  in  those  armies  recruited 
from  among  the  settlers  of  a  frontier.  Bold,  and  full  of 
animal  life,  he  was  as  brutal  as  he  was  powerful  and  deter- 
mined ;  and  without  being  absolutely  malicious,  he  was  ca- 
pable of  any  extent  of  bloodshed  and  cruelty,  under  the 
inspiration  of  vengeance  or  the  temptings  of  lust.  He  was 
one  of  the  same  class  that  wrought  the  massacre  of  the 
Christian  Delawares. 

This  man,  who  had  been  long  watching  for  an  opportu- 
nity to  revenge  himself  on  the  fortunate  lover  of  his  mis- 
tress, but  who  was  not  willing  to  resort  to  assassination,  and 
could  not  succeed  in  fixing  a  quarrel  upon  Litcomb,  Peggy's 
husband,  had  made  his  calculations  on  this  day  to  lead  the 
party  which  that  officer  was  to  command  into  an  Indian 
ambush,  and  so  take  the  life  of  his  rival  without  his  agency 
being  seen,  either  by  his  commander,  his  companions,  or 
even  his  own  conscience.  It  was  therefore  a  great  annoy- 
ance to  him  to  find  that  Arthur  was  to  be  joined  with  him 
in  the  service  of  protecting  the  flanks  of  the  detachment. 
He  knew  all  about  Campbell's  adventure  on  Big  Beaver, 
his  illness,  his  weakness,  and  was  aware  that  he  could  at 
any  moment  make  him  quake  by  a  glance  of  his  eye ;  and 
35* 


414  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

yet  he  feared  the  intelligence  and  the  disinterestedness  of 
the  hypochondriac.  He  was  like  the  imaginary  lion  in 
whose  presence  the  maiden  trembles,  but  which  yet  shrinks 
and  crouches  at  her  feet.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done ;  the  word  of  Anthony  had  gone  forth,  and  Campbell 
and  Strong  set  forward  with  the  company  under  the  charge 
of  Litcomb. 

Arthur  had  known  his  comrade  from  boyhood.  In  youth 
they  had  often  hunted  side  by  side,  and  never  had  any  quar- 
rel existed  between  them.  But  still  they  walked  that  day 
side  by  side,  each  suspicious  of  the  other.  Strong  dreaded 
lest  his  secret  plans  had  become  known  by  words  which  he 
had  uttered  in  his  sleep,  or  in  some  way  that  mortals  could 
not  understand  ;  while  Campbell,  who  had  long  watched  his 
sister's  discarded  lover,  more  than  guessed  at  his  enmity  and 
his  determination  to  do  the  young  officer  who  was  with  them 
an  injury.  Indeed,  he  had  exerted  himself  to  obtain  leave 
to  go  with  the  party  that  day,  because  he  apprehended 
some  ill  purpose  in  his  fellow-scout.  With  his  whole  soul, 
therefore,  he  was  prepared  to  watch  the  movements  of 
Bill,  who,  as  the  one  that  had  discovered  traces  of  the 
enemy,  was  entitled  to  assume  in  a  measure  the  direction 
of  affairs. 

For  some  distance  they  returned  upon  the  road  made  by 
the  advancing  army,  then  struck  a  creek  which  led  them  to 
the  northeast,  and  in  the  direction  of  the  Auglaize.  They 
had  not  gone  far  down  this  stream  before  Indian  signs  be- 
came abundant,  and  a  halt  was  called  for  consultation. 
Now  Strong  knew  very  well  how  the  Indians  were  posted. 
Through  a  Canadian  who  was  with  them,  one  of  Elliott's 
men,  he  had  prepared  every  thing  to  secure  the  defeat  of 
his  own  party,  and  the  death  or  capture  of  Litcomb,  and  yet 
had  so  contrived  as  to  secure  himself,  as  he  trusted,  both 
from  injury  by  the  foe  and  discovery  on  the  part  of  the 
Americans  ;  for,  to  insure  the  latter,  with  that  craft  which 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIAC.  415 

the  Devil  teaches  his  victims,  he  had  made  the  Canadian 
think  himself  the  duper  of  the  Longknives,  and  the  deceiver 
of  their  spy.  Bill,  therefore,  advised  a  separation  of  the 
party.  Ten  men  he  would  take  and  go  round  by  a  path 
which  he  knew,  having  scouted  the  ground  some  days  be- 
fore, so  as  to  bring  himself  into  the  rear  of  the  Indians  who 
were  supposed  to  occupy  the  bottom  along  the  creek  ;  while 
the  twenty  men  who  remained  were  to  go  forward  with  the 
Lieutenant  and  Campbell,  until  they  came  in  front  of  the 
savages.  All  were  then  to  rest  until  the  moon  rose,  when 
the  red  men,  lost  in  slumber,  were  to  be  attacked  by  the 
two  divisions  at  the  same  moment.  To  this  plan  no  objec- 
tion was  made.  Arthur  would  not  have  left  his  brother 
alone,  and  he  would  not  have  left  him  under  the  guidance 
of  Strong  ;  but  he  never  for  a  moment  dreamed  of  treach- 
ery, and  feared  only  the  anger  and  direct  vengeance  of  his 
former  friend.  All  went,  therefore,  as  the  evil-minded  man 
desired.  The  detachment  divided  ;  Bill  with  his  portion 
took  to  the  hills,  and  the  remainder  marched  down  the  val- 
ley toward  the  point  where,  as  Strong  well  knew,  the  sav- 
ages, lying  in  ambush  on  either  side  of  the  narrow  run, 
waited  the  coming  of  the  victims  whose  march  the  traitor 
had  disclosed. 

But  fortunately  they  were  under  the  guidance  of  one  whose 
disease  and  melancholy  had  made  him  far  more  thoughtful 
and  observing  than  common  men,  and  in  whose  mind  suspi- 
cion, still  lingering,  kept  every  faculty  awake.  Influenced 
by  this  vague  feeling  of  danger,  Arthur  proposed  to  the 
Lieutenant  to  remain  with  the  party  where  they  then  were 
for  an  hour  or  two,  and  allow  him  to  examine  by  himself 
the  ground  before  them,  —  a  delay  which  would  not  more 
than  equal  the  time  lost  by  Strong  in  making  his  circuit. 
To  this  proposition  Litcomb  assented,  with  the  proviso  that 
he  should  accompany  his  brother  in  the  reconnoitre,  —  a 
plan  which  Campbell  opposed  in  vain.  So,  leaving  the 


416  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

men  with  their  sergeant,  the  two  set  fortli  together.  Before 
they  had  gone  far,  the  scout  discovered  signs  which  told 
him  lhat  the  savages  in  considerable  numbers  had  been  as- 
cending the  densely-wooded  sides  of  the  ravine,  and  was 
about  to  point  out  to  his  companion  the  wisdom  of  an  imme- 
diate return,  when  he  caught  the  eye  of  an  Indian  glancing 
through  the  bushes  along  the  barrel  of  his  rifle.  Assured 
by  what  he  had  seen  that  this  warrior  was  not  alone,  and 
knowing  that  flight  and  contest  must  be  equally  useless,  sit- 
uated as  they  were,  he  made  a  sign  of  friendship  to  the 
threatening  foe,  and  with  a  word  or  two  explained  to  the 
Lieutenant  their  dangerous  position.  "  We  have  been  en- 
trapped," he  added  ;  "  we  must  submit  as  deserters,  and 
trust  to  our  ingenuity  to  save  us."  It  was  with  great  un- 
willingness that  the  young  officer  could  entertain  the  idea  of 
practising  this  deception,  even  on  an  Indian,  and  playing  the 
part  of  a  traitor.  But  no  other  hope  offered  itself;  and 
while  still  but  half  resolved,  he  found  himself  surrounded 
and  pinioned.  The  Canadian,  Strong's  friend,  was  present, 
and  acted  as  interpreter.  Through  him  Campbell  com- 
municated a  number  of  supposed  facts  in  relation  to  the 
body  of  troops  they  had  just  left  a  mile  or  two  above, 
which  had  the  effect  of  preventing  any  attempt  to  attack 
them,  and,  after  soine  consultation,  led  the  chiefs  to 
determine  to  leave  that  vicinity  for  the  towns  near  the 
Maumee,  carrying  with  them,  of  course,  the  two  professed 
deserters. 

The  sergeant  who  had  been  left  in  command  of  the  twenty 
men,  when  evening  came,  and  the  Lieutenant  and  spy  did 
not  return,  moved  cautiously  down  the  valley ;  but  as  he 
found  no  one  to  oppose  him,  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  his 
officer  or  of  Strong's  detachment,  he  retraced  his  steps  with 
wonder,  and  some  dismay,  and  reported  himself  to  Wayne 
early  the  next  forenoon.  Strong,  who  had  expected  soon 
after  climbing  the  hill  to  hear  the  rifles  of  the  ambushed 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  417 

Indians,  and  who  was  afraid  to  trust  himself  near  the  ground 
which  he  supposed  they  occupied,  was  at  a  loss  how  to  be- 
have so  as  to  prevent  his  men  accusing  him  of  cowardice 
and  treachery  ;  for  although  they  knew  nothing  of  the  de- 
tails of  the  plan  he  had  proposed,  they  had  gathered  its  out- 
line. But  while  he  rested  upon  the  summit  of  the  ridge  or 
rise,  where  he  told  his  men  they  had  better  remain  till  dark, 
the  sound  of  an  advancing  body  of  men  struck  his  quick  ear, 
and  he  had  scarce  time  to  conceal  his  followers  when  the 
body  of  savages  passed  by  toward  the  north,  having  in  their 
midst  his  fellow-scout  and  his  commander.  As  his  forces 
were  but  ten  in  number,  and  the  Indians  at  least  a  hundred, 
it  was  impossible  to  rescue  his  comrades,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  fact  that  it  gave  him  exquisite  pleasure  to  see  them  in 
captivity.  It  was  necessary,  however,  to  seem  to  care  for 
them ;  so  he  followed  at  a  safe  distance  until  nightfall. 
Then,  taking  with  him  one  of  the  soldiers,  he  crept  closer 
to  the  spot  where  the  Shawanese  were  encamped  ;  close 
enough,  indeed,  for  both  him  and  his  companion  to  over- 
hear portions  of  the  conversation  between  Litcomb  and 
Arthur  on  the  one  part,  and  the  Canadian  upon  the  other. 
In  drawing  thus  near,  Bill  had  no  other  object  in  view  than 
to  be  able  to  carry  back  a  satisfactory  account  in  the  morn- 
ing to  the  commander-in-chief ;  but  to  his  astonishment  he 
overheard  what  seemed  to  stamp  both  the  apparent  prisoners 
with  the  character  of  deserters  who  were  conveying  to  the 
enemy  all  the  information  in  their  power  in  relation  to  the 
American  army.  "  Now,  then,"  thought  the  devil-inspired 
man,  "  I  am  revenged  any  how.  If  they  return,  they  shall 
be  hung  as  traitors ;  if  they  do  not,  mistress  Peggy  shall  be 
mine  at  last."  So,  with  the  strange  news  of  the  desertion 
of  Litcomb  and  Campbell,  and  with  the  soldier  who  had 
overheard  the  conversation  as  a  witness,  Strong  returned  to 
the  army,  which  he  reached  not  long  after  the  other  portion 
of  the  detachment. 


418  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

When  Pegcy  heard  of  the  reports  brought  in  by  the  party 
with  which  her  husband  and  brother  had  gone  out,  nothing 
could  equal  her  sorrow,  except,  indeed,  her  anger.  With  a 
woman^s  instinct,  she  at  once  suspected  some  treachery  on 
the  part  of  Bill  Strong  ;  but  how  could  she  detect  it  ?  How 
rescue  those  she  loved  ?  Or,  if  they  died,  how  prove  their 
innocence  ?  She  had  no  female  friends  in  the  camp  ;  Wayne 
had  little  taste  for  women  on  a  campaign,  and  only  peculiar 
circumstances  had  enabled  Litcomb  to  bring  his  wife  thus 
far.  Arthur  had  seemingly  none  to  care  for  him,  for  he 
sought  the  acquaintance  and  friendship  of  none.  The  Lieu- 
tenant was  somewhat  of  a  favorite,  but  Peggy  was  rather 
afrai  i  of  the  young  men  who  were  his  intimates.  And  so 
the  poor  girl  mourned,  with  her  teeth  set  resolutely  against 
Bill  Strong  all  the  while,  in  utter  solitude. 

Meanwhile,  in  another  portion  of  the  camp,  two  men, 
whom  Peggy  had  never  seen,  and  would  have  shunned  if 
she  had  seen,  were  deliberating  also  how  to  save  her  brother. 
One  of  these  two  was  a  New  England  boy,  awkward  to  an 
absurdity,  and  cautious  to  a  fault,  but  whose  nature  was 
generous  and  true,  and  whose  conscience  had  the  old  Pil- 
grim stamina  in  it.  The  other  was  an  Irishman,  rash  as  a 
meteor  and  hot  as  the  sun  that  exhales  it.  Both  were  of 
the  corps  of  spies,  though  wholly  unfitted  by  opposite  qual- 
ities to  perform  the  duties  of  a  scout  as  they  should  be  per. 
formed.  Both  had  been  in  countless  perplexities,  and  both, 
countless  times,  had  been  silently  relieved  by  the  thoughtful- 
ness,  the  knowledge,  the  coolness,  or  the  boldness  of  the 
hypochondriac.  For  months,  with  few  words  passing  be- 
tween them,  a  strong  bond  had  been  knitting  them  vitally  to 
Arthur  Campbell  ;  and  they  felt  that  the  proof  of  its  vitality 
was  now  to  be  given. 

While  Peggy  mourns,  and  threatens,  and  thinks ;  and 
while  Benjamin  Pollock  and  Johnny  Grant  try  to  make  their 
discordant  brains  work  together  for  the  cood  of  their  com- 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIAC.  419 

rade  and  helper,  the  two  professed  deserters  are  safely 
housed  in  a  wigwam  at  Grand  Glaize.  As  yet  no  plan  for 
escape  had  opened  to  them.  They  were  but  half  trusted, 
and  treated  rather  as  spies  than  real  traitors.  This  Arthur 
expected,  and  knowing  how  little  time  remained  for  them  to 
act  in,  and  how  necessary  it  was  to  establish  confidence  in 
the  minds  of  their  captors,  utterly  indifferent  also  as  to  his 
own  life,  if  he  could  but  save  those  dear  to  him,  he  deter- 
mined upon  a  plan,  which  he  dared  not  disclose  to  his  com- 
panion, but  which  he  trusted  would  accomplish  all  he 
wished,  —  the  production  of  trust  in  them  on  the  part  of  the 
Indians,  means  to  aid  the  army  of  Wayne,  an  opportunity  to 
betray  the  secrets  of  that  of  his  enemies,  and  a  chance  at 
last  to  secure  the  liberty  of  his  brother,  and,  if  all  went 
right,  his  own.  His  plan  was  this,  —  to  ascertain  from  the 
Canadian  the  position  of  the  American  army ;  to  offer  his 
services,  the  unarmed  and  two  armed  savages  watching  him, 
to  learn  when  any  portion  of  that  army  had  been  detached, 
and  to  insure  its  capture.  This  capture  he  intended  really 
to  effect,  if  the  number  was  not  more  than  would  probably 
go  out  to  gather  the  corn  and  pumpkins  of  the  rich  Indian 
fields  that  made  that  neighbourhood  one  boundless  garden, 
and  the  effecting  of  it  would,  he  trusted,  produce  reliance  in 
him,  and  so  enable  him  to  work  out  the  problem,  —  to 
become  most  completely  Wayne's  spy,  and  to  bring  about 
most  quickly  the  liberation  of  the  Lieutenant.  Two  things, 
unluckily,  were  unknown  to  Arthur, — the  treachery  of 
Strong,  and  the  conversation  which  had  been  half  over- 
heard by  him  and  the  soldier.  He  proposed  his  plan,  how- 
ever, to  the  Canadian,  and  through  his  agency  the  chiefs 
accepted  it. 

On  the  8th  of  August,  Wayne  reached  the  confluence  of 
the  Maumee  and  Auglaize,  and  the  advanced  body  of  In- 
dians retired  toward  the  main  force,  nearly  fifty  miles  down 
the  former  river.  It  was  at  this  point,  while  Fort  Defiance 


420  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

was  in  progress,  that  the  experiment  of  Campbell  was  to  be 
made,  if  ever. 

The  evening  of  the  llth  of  August  set  in  dark  and 
stormy,  and  Arthur  Campbell  informed  the  Canadian  that 
he  thought  no  better  opportunity  could  occur  to  examine  the 
neighbourhood  of  Wayne's  fort,  now  nearly  completed,  in 
anticipation  of  the  attempt  upon  any  party  which  might  ven- 
ture forth  to  gather  food.  Accordingly,  in  the  evening, 
Arthur,  unarmed,  accompanied  by  the  Canadian  and  two 
savages,  each  with  his  rifle,  stole  up  the  banks  of  the  river, 
and  proceeded  cautiously  to  examine  the  ground  about  the 
American  encampment.  It  was  familiar,  of  course,  to  the 
natives,  but  Campbell  could  not  carry  out  his  plan  without 
himself  going  over  it.  From  point  to  point  it  was  traversed, 
therefore,  and  each  hollow  and  thicket  pointed  out  to  him 
as  well  as  the  night  would  allow.  While  engaged  in  this 
occupation,  Arthur  heard  a  low  whistle,  which  he  at  once 
recognized  as  that  of  a  scout;  replying  to  it,  he  informed 
his  companions  that  the  American  spies  were  abroad,  and 
thinking  it  possible  that  Wayne  was  preparing  to  beat  the 
woods  for  any  lingering  parties  of  the  red  men  that  might 
be  about,  he  advised  an  immediate  return  to  the  Indian 
camp.  To  this  advice  the  Canadian  would  not  listen,  for  he 
thought  it  proceeded  from  cowardice,  and  the  four,  much  to 
Campbell's  discomfort,  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  camp 
of  the  Longknives.  It  was  as  Arthur  supposed  ;  a  party 
of  scouts,  with  a  file  of  picked  soldiers,  was  at  this  moment 
preparing  to  leave  the  fort  to  examine  the  neighbouring  for- 
est, where  some  of  the  enemy,  as  it  had  been  learned,  still 
lurked  ;  and  the  little  band  of  explorers  had  not  gone  twenty 
steps  beyond  the  spy  whose  whistle  had  been  first  heard,  be- 
fore Campbell  discovered  that  they  were  in  the  midst  of  a 
number  of  men,  who,  stationed  at  a  distance  of  about  ten 
feet  each  from  the  other,  were  waiting  in  perfect  silence  the 
command  to  move  forward.  These  men  perceived  the  pres- 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  421 

ence  of  the  Indians  and  Canadian  about  the  same  instant 
that  Arthur  discovered  them;  but,  supposing  the  persons  in 
motion  to  be  a  portion  of  their  own  body,  would  have  suf- 
fered them  to  pass  through  uninterrupted,  had  not  the  com- 
manding officer  at  that  moment  come  forward  to  see  that  all 
was  right,  when  opening  his  lantern,  as  he  did  so  he  made 
visible  the  copper  countenances  and  streaming  scalp-locks 
of  the  Wyandots.  A  cry  of  alarm  and  wonder  was  succeed- 
ed by  rifle-shots  and  uproar  ;  then  came  dead  silence  again. 
In  the  utter  darkness,  no  man  knew  what  had  happened. 
A  little  while,  however,  revealed  the  result  of  the  unlooked- 
for  skirmish.  Two  Americans  lay  badly  wounded  ;  one  of 
the  Indians  was  dead,  the  other  had  vanished,  the  Canadian 
and  Arthur  were  prisoners. 

Our  hero  scarce  knew  at  first  whether  to  rejoice  or  mourn 
at  this  catastrophe.  It  secured  his  freedom  if  he  chose  to 
profit  by  it,  but  that  he  cared  not  for ;  it  was  Litcomb's 
liberty,  not  his  own,  which  he  was  striving  to  secure,  and 
he  dreaded  lest  it  should  lead  to  greater  mistrust  of  his 
brother,  and  perhaps  his  death.  Again,  it  might  enable  him 
to  arrange  his  plans  with  Wayne  in  such  a  manner  as  to  put 
it  into  the  power  of  that  commander  to  free  them  both  ;  but, 
meanwhile,  would  not  the  Wyandots,  alarmed  by  the  war- 
rior that  had  escaped,  at  once  join  the  main  body,  and  carry 
Litcomb  beyond  all  aid  ?  While  meditating  these  things, 
and  considering  how  he  could  contrive  to  make  the  Ameri- 
cans treat  him  as  a  deserter  in  presence  of  his  fellow-cap- 
tives, he  was  brought  into  a  blaze  of  torch-light,  which  for  the 
first  time  allowed  his  captors  to  discover  who  it  was  they  had 
taken,  for  at  first  they  had  naturally  supposed  both  the  white 
men  to  be  Canadians :  and  what  was  the  horror  of  Arthur 
to  find  in  every  word  that  fell  upon  his  ear  proof  that  he 
was  already  looked  upon  as  a  traitor  and  a  villain.  He 
could  not  account  for  it ;  it  was  something  which  had  not 
entered  into  his  thoughts,  and  in  an  instant  he  saw  that,  if 

VOL.  i.  36 


4'22  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

Wayne  held  the  convictions  which  his  comrades  declared, 
all  hope  for  him  and  his  brother  was  gone  ;  that  he  must  die 
the  death  of  a  deserter,  and  Litcomh  pass  into  the  merciless 
hands  of  Elliot  and  McKee.  lie  was  left  to  pass  the  re- 
mainder of  the  night  revolving  these  thoughts,  more  wretch- 
ed and  despondent  than  ever. 

Early  in  the  morning,  while  he  yet  lay  wrapped  in  his 
blanket  upon  the  floor  of  the  block-house  which  had  been 
made  his  prison,  the  American  general  entered.  Arthur 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  confronted  the  eagle-eyed  soldier  with 
a  face  as  calm  and  proud  as  his  own. 

"And  you,  Campbell,  a  deserter!"  said  Wayne,  who 
knew  the  hypochondriac  well, — "  you,  the  son  of  a  High- 
lander, traitor  to  your  native  land  and  your  own  blood  !  — 
deserting  not  only  your  colors  and  your  comrades,  but  your 
own  sister,  and  carrying  her  husband  into  infamy  with 
you  !  —  I  could  not  have  believed  it !  " 

"  And  do  you  believe  it,  General  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  On  what  proof?     Why?" 

Anthony  opened  the  door  and  beckoned.  Bill  Strong  and 
the  soldier  who  had  overheard  the  conversation  between 
Arthur  and  the  Canadian  entered  at  the  signal.  When 
Campbell  saw  the  former  glide  into  the  apartment,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  villany  that  had  been  perpetrated  ;  and  as 
he  did  so,  intense  anger,  which  seldom  visited  his  breast, 
shook  every  fibre  of  his  frame,  and  the  whole  force  of  the 
terrible  disease  under  which  he  labored  came  back  upon  his 
brain  and  his  nerves.  Pale  and  trembling,  when  Wayne 
again  turned  to  question  him,  his  looks  were  enough ;  his 
quivering  voice  and  wild  eyes  answered  for  him  ;  and  with 
scarce  a  moment's  hesitation  the  General  left  the  room,  with 
a  complete  conviction  of  his  treachery. 

Neither  Strong  nor  his  victim  failed  to  see  the  effect  which 
had  been  produced  by  the  nervous  weakness  of  the  latter, 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIAC.  423 

and  the  real  traitor  resolved  to  profit  by  the  weakness  of 
the  hypochondriac.  Seeking  his  commander,  therefore,  he 
proposed,  as  he  said  he  wished  to  be  fair  to  his  neighbour 
Campbell,  that  the  latter  should  be  asked  to  make  oath  that 
he  was  not  guilty  of  desertion,  and  if  he  could  do  it  without 
shrinking,  all  might  be  well,  perhaps  ;  but  if  he  dared  not 
call  God  to  witness  his  fidelity  to  his  flag,  then  there  could 
be  no  more  doubt.  The  proposition  seemed  reasonable,  and 
Wayne,  though  rather  to  satisfy  this  lover  of  justice  than 
himself,  agreed  to  the  trial.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  12th 
of  August,  therefore,  Arthur  was  brought  before  a  tribunal, 
where  the  General  presided,  and  informed  that,  if  he  would 
subscribe  an  affidavit  solemnly  declaring  that  he  did  not  leave 
his  fellows  falsely,  and  basely  give  information  to  the  foe, 
his  case  should  be  gone  into  fully  ;  but  if  he  refused  to  take 
this  oath  he  would  be  adjudged  guilty  at  once.  All  seemed 
just  and  fair,  and  yet  Arthur  so  well  knew  his  weakness  that 
he  foresaw  he  never  could  do  what  was  required.  The 
demon  of  hypochondria  was  on  him  ;  his  hand  was  power- 
less, and  thus  called  upon,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  sign 
any  thing,  say  any  thing.  And  so  it  proved  ;  his  tongue 
refused  to  swear,  his  trembling  fingers  refused  to  hold  the 
pen.  As  it  fell  from  his  hand,  while  big  drops  of  sweat 
rolled  down  his  pale  countenance,  the  commander  muttered, 
"  It  is  God's  judgment.  Take  him  away  and  put  him  in 
irons ;  he  shall  die  before  we  fight." 

Meanwhile,  the  whole  army  had  been  made  aware  that 
one  of  the  deserters,  the  silent  scout,  was  taken.  It  reached 
the  ears  of  Pollock  and  Grant  when  they  came  in  from  their 
rounds,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  12th,  and  penetrated  the 
mourning  chamber  of  Peggy,  if  a  loft  in  a  log-hut  deserves 
so  grand  a  name.  The  news  was  not  lost  on  either  the 
spies  or  the  sister.  She  sought  and  obtained  leave  to  see 
the  unhappy  man  that  evening.  Grant  talked  himself  dry 
in  his  defence  ;  while  Pollock  quietly  set  himself  to  unravel 


424  '  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

the  mystery  of  Arthur's  sudden  inability  to  speak  or  write  ; 
for  as  to  its  being  conscience  that  shook  him,  Benjamin  was 
too  confident  of  his  truth  to  heed  that  notion.  All,  as  it 
pleased  that  Power  who  works  for  innocence,  elFected  some- 
thing for  the  victim  of  disease. 

Peggy,  omitting  all  mention  of  tears  and  words  of  affec- 
tion, told  her  brother  just  what  report  the  informants  against 
him  had  brought  in  ;  the  conversation  they  had  overheard  ; 
the  things  they  had  witnessed  ;  and  thus  enabled  Arthur  to 
understand  what  real  evidence  existed  against  him,  and 
made  known  to  him  the  weakness  of  his  cause.  She  told 
him,  also,  of  her  determination  to  run  every  risk  to  save  her 
husband  ;  and  was  so  calm  and  firm  in  her  behaviour  as  she 
expressed  her  willingness  to  go  anywhere,  or  do  any  thing, 
to  free  the  man  she  loved,  that  Campbell  saw  in  her  agency 
a  new  means  to  effect  all  he  coveted,  but  which  he  had  begun 
to  despair  of,  —  Litcomb's  release.  Promising  Peggy,  there- 
fore, to  think  how  her  spirit  might  best  aid  them  all,  the 
scout  lay  down  in  his  fetters,  thanking  God  for  the  hope  that 
had  risen  upon  his  soul. 

While  these  two  thus  communed,  Johnny  Grant  was  talk- 
ing himself  into  a  quarrel  with  the  man  who  had  borne  wit- 
ness against  his  friend,  —  "  Big  Bill,"  as  he  was  called. 
Strong  had  not  felt  disposed  to  say  much  about  Campbell's 
desertion  to  his  fellow-spies  until  this  evening,  but  now  his 
tongue  was  untied.  Before,  he  had  been  pexplexed  by  what 
he  had  heard,  for  in  his  soul  he  believed  Arthur  to  be  as  true 
as  Anthony  himself;  but  the  proof  against  him  was  now  so 
mighty  that  he  did  not  care  how  freely  he  condemned  his 
old  comrade,  though  the  dread  disease  of  the  victim  of  Big 
Beaver  was  explanation  enough,  as  he  well  knew,  of  his 
speechless  tongue  and  powerless  hand.  And  as  the  dispute 
grew  fiercer,  and  the  whiskey-gourd  circulated  more  freely, 
Benjamin  Pollock,  the  peacemaker  and  teetotaller,  for  once 
in  his  life  fanned  the  flame  and  passed  the  cup.  He  had 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  425 

caught  some  words  from  Strong's  mouth  which  seemed  to 
throw  light  into  the  dark  places,  and  Benjamin  hoped  that 
warmth  and  liquor  would  give  him  yet  more  insight  into  the 
misfortunes  of  his  benefactor.  Nor  was  he  wrong  in  his  cal- 
culation, and,  before  the  higher  powers  came  in  to  quiet  and 
reprove  the  backwoodsmen,  had  learned  some  things  that  he 
hoped  to  make  useful.  Thus  recklessness  and  caution  work- 
ed together  for  Arthur's  good. 

He,  the  condemned  traitor,  during  that  night  of  the  12th, 
lay  in  his  irons,  meditating  how  to  solve  the  problem  of  his 
own  and  his  brother's  fate  by  means  of  a  woman ;  and  ere 
morning  his  mind  was  clear  as  to  the  solution.  He  deter- 
mined to  seek  an  interview  with  the  Canadian  ;  to  get  from 
him  some  token  which  the  Wyandots  would  know  ;  to  send 
Peggy,  disguised  as  a  boy,  with  this  token  to  their  camp ;  to 
communicate  by  her  his  fate  and  that  of  his  fellow-captive ; 
to  inform  the  Indians  when  the  Americans  would  move  for- 
ward, concealing,  however,  their  numbers,  and  to  arrange 
an  ambush,  in  which  Litcomb  was  to  take  part  if  possible ; 
to  inform  Litcomb  of  the  whole  plot,  so  that,  when  the 
whites  and  Indians  were  engaged,  he  might  pass  with  Peggy 
to  the  American  side,  and  after  the  skirmish,  which  could 
not  last  long,  might,  if  both  were  living,  appear  as  witness 
in  his  behalf.  Such  was  the  outline  of  his  rude  plan  ;  the 
detail,  he  knew,  must  be  left  to  what  we  term  chance,  and 
to  the  ingenuity  and  energy  of  Peggy  and  her  husband. 

In  the  morning,  the  unhappy,  but  undaunted  girl  again 
saw  him,  listened  to  him,  comprehended  his  projects,  and 
gave  herself,  body  and  soul,  to  save  those  who  were  dearest 
to  her.  She  could  ride,  run,  swim,  shoot,  as  a  frontier 
girl  should,  and  doubted  not  to  learn  when  the  army 
would  leave  Defiance,  and  to  procure  the  disguise  that  was 
needed. 

But  Peggy,  hopeful  and  brave  as  she  was,  would  have 
been  able  to  do  but  little  had  not  our  friend  Benjamin  been 
36* 


426  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

devoted  to  the  same  cause  with  herself.  lie  alone,  of  all  in 
the  camp,  had  the  clothes  which  she  needed  ;  they  had  he- 
longed  to  an  adopted  son  of  eighteen,  who  had  emigrated 
with  him,  and  died  at  Fort  Recovery.  Moreover,  he  alone, 
of  all  in  the  camp,  had  the  true  clew  to  the  conduct  of  Camp- 
bell and  Litcomb  when  they  became  apparently  deserters. 
How  he  obtained  this  clew  we  must  now  relate.  When  the 
angry  discussion  between  Strong  and  Grant  took  place,  the 
former  let  fall  sundry  remarks  in  relation  to  the  Canadian 
who  had  been  taken  with  Arthur,  which  induced  our  Yankee 
friend  to  seek  an  interview  with  that  prisoner.  This  he 
easily  obtained,  and  in  half  an  hour's  cautious,  insinuating, 
suggestive  conversation,  wherein  what  he  knew  through 
Strong's  tipsy  rage  came  frequently  in  play,  he  learned  be- 
yond question  that  worthy  man's  treachery,  the  way  in 
which  he  had  delivered  up  his  comrades  to  the  Indians,  and 
various  little  matters  which  went  to  illustrate  the  true  posi- 
tion of  allairs.  Thus  much  learned,  the  scout  sought  a 
meeting  with  his  old  companion,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
the  keen  wit  of  Scot  and  Now-Englander  acting  together 
made  every  thing  as  clear  as  noonday.  At  this  meeting, 
which  took  place  about  noon  on  the  13th,  Arthur  related  to 
his  friend  the  plan  by  which  he  proposed  to  release  Litcomb, 
and  learned  to  his  great  joy  that  Benjamin  could  furnish  the 
disguise  that  was  needed,  and  would,  moreover,  conduct 
Peggy  so  far  upon  her  way  as  to  insure  her  safety.  Nay,  fur- 
ther, lie  promised  to  learn  when  the  army  would  move,  and 
also  proposed  to  go  with  her  to  the  Canadian,  and  use  his 
diplomatic  skill  in  obtaining  from  that  person  the  token 
which  was  needed  to  insure  Peggy's  welcome  among  the 
"Wyandots.  All  went  on  as  they  wished.  The  token  was 
procured  ;  the  disguise  put  on  ;  the  lines  passed  ;  the  vicinity 
of  the  Indians  reached  unharmed  ;  and  then  Pollock  returned 
to  his  duties,  and  Peggy, —  now  the  boy  Peter, —  unarmed 
but  fearless,  sped  to  the  rescue  of  the  Lieutenant. 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  427 

Tt  was  just  after  daylight  on  the  morning  of  the  14th  of 
August  that  she  approached  the  Wyandot  encampment. 
She  came  boldly  up  to  it,  bearing  a  white  cloth  upon  a  staff, 
and  holding  up  to  view  the  plume  which  the  Canadian  had 
given  her,  and  which  was  marked  in  a  manner  that  made 
it  equal  to  a  signet-ring.  At  the  first  sound  of  a  human 
voice  she  paused  and  looked  around  ;  for  a  while  she  saw 
no  one  ;  then  she  beheld  a  woman  lying  upon  the  ground 
about  twenty  yards  distant,  who  seemed  unable  to  move, 
scarce  able  to  speak.  Peggy  almost  forgot  she  was  no  lon- 
ger a  woman  herself,  as  she  sprang  to  the  side  of  her  red 
sister,  and  asked  with  gestures  what  was  the  matter.  The 
squaw  had  been  bitten  by  a  rattlesnake  as  she  was  gathering 
dry  boughs  for  the  morning  fire,  and  fear  rather  than  the 
injury  had  deprived  her  of  all  power  of  motion.  Peggy  in 
an  instant  comprehended  the  evil,  and  applied  the  means 
which  her  mountain  training  had  made  familiar  ;  and  before 
the  brown  girl  had  ceased  to  wonder  at  her  rescue  by  this 
young  warrior  of  the  whites,  the  poison  was  sucked  out,  the 
healing  leaves  applied,  and  the  wounded  limb  bound  up. 

It  was  a  fortunate  introduction  for  our  masquerader.  It 
secured  her  devoted  friends  in  the  mother  and  brother  of 
the  Indian  girl,  and  made  the  whole  party  ready  to  listen 
favorably  to  the  tale  which  Peggy  had  to  tell.  And  she 
needed  to  tell  it  well,  for  that  morning  Matthew  Elliot  him- 
self, having  just  returned  from  Detroit,  whither  he  went  to 
make  the  final  arrangements  for  the  approaching  struggle, 
had  come  up  the  Maumee  to  the  advanced  Wyandot  band  ; 
and  the  Highland  maiden,  when  brought  before  the  chiefs  to 
give  an  account  of  herself,  found,  instead  of  a  common 
Canadian  interpreter,  the  most  sagacious  and  unscrupulous 
of  that  class  of  white  men  who  used  the  savages  as  imple- 
ments of  war  and  plunder.  She  told  her  story,  however,  so 
well,  —  was  so  exact  and  true  upon  every  point  whereon  the 
Indians  could  possibly  be  informed,  —  for  such  had  been  Ar- 


428  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

thur's  repeated  advice,  —  that  even   Elliot  did  not  suspect 
the  inventions  to  which  she  was  obliged  to  resort  in  regard 
to  those  private  matters  of  which  he  knew  nothing.     On  one 
point  of  public   interest  only  did  she  deceive   him,  but  that 
was  a  vital  one.     It  was  in  reference  to  the  mode  in  which 
the  American  army  would  move  forward  from  the  new  fort. 
The  time  of  probable  departure  Elliot  had  ascertained,  and 
Peggy's  account  agreed  with  that  which  lie  had  heard  from 
his  spies ;  so  that  he  was  ready  to  give  credence  to  what  she 
added   in  relation  to  Wayne's  determination  to  move  down 
the  Maumee  with  divided  forces,  one  half  of  his  troops  on 
each  bank,  —  a  division  which  the  British  agents  had   been 
trying  to  bring  about,  but  scarce   hoped  to  eilect.     After  a 
consultation  among  themselves,  Litcomb  was  called  in  to  be 
confronted  with  the  new-comer.     When  he  entered  the  wig- 
wam and  saw  the  lad  who  stood  there,  he   paused,  puzzled 
with   the   sense   of  half-recognition  ;   and  as  his  conviction 
became    firmer  that  it  was  Peggy   herself,  he  would   have 
spoiled  all   by  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  had  she  not,  seeing 
the  danger,  stepped  forward  and  said,  —  "  Perhaps  the  Lieu- 
tenant docs   not   remember   the   boy  Peter  that  joined   the 
army  with  Benjamin  Pollock.1'     Her  husband  comprehended 
at  once  that  her  disguise  was  to  be  retained,  not  thrown  off 
now  that  she  had  reached   him,  and,  clasping  her  hand,  ac- 
knowledged that  for  a  moment  he  was  at  a  loss,  though  he 
was  sure  the  features  were  familiar  ;  —  nor,  once  put  upon 
his  guard,  could  Elliot's  cross-examination  bring  any  thing 
out  tending  to  throw  discredit  upon  the  story  which  the   boy 
had  told.    This  story  was  exceedingly  simple.     Several  oth- 
er of  Wayne's  spies  besides  Arthur  were  desirous  of  going 
over  to  the   side  of  the   allies;  and  among  them   Pollock, 
whose  son    Peggy  claimed  to  be.     By  him   she   had   been 
sent  to  open  a  communication  with  the  enemy,  and  brought 
promises  of  aid  on  the   part  of  several  of  the  scouts,  pro- 
vided the  savages  would  do  all  in  their  power  to  save  Camp- 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  ^  429 

bell.  Bat  how  to  aid  him  ?  The  plan  suggested  by  Pollock 
through  his  messenger  was  this.  Arthur  was  to  be  with  the 
party  that  would  move  down  the  north  bank  of  the  river,  and 
which  was  to  leave  early  the  next  day  ;  this  party  the  In- 
dians, headed  by  Litcomb,  were  to  attack,  and  it  was  asserted 
that  the  presence  of  the  yonng  officer  would  cause  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  troops  of  Wayne  who  would  be 
there  to  stand  neutral  at  least.  If  the  American  Lieutenant 
were  not  present,  the  success  of  the  effort  might  be  doubted  ; 
if  he  were,  there  was  no  difficulty  to  be  apprehended.  It 
was  not  so  easy  to  induce  the  Wyandots  to  place  so  great 
confidence  in  the  deserter,  but  the  message  sent  by  the 
Canadian  seemed  to  make  it  certain  that  the  officer  and 
scout  had  in  reality  gone  over  to  the  side  of  the  red  man, 
and  that  the  latter  now  lay  under  sentence  of  death  for  hav- 
ing done  so.  One  by  one,  therefore,  the  savages  yielded  to 
the  conviction  that  the  proposed  plan  was  the  best  for  them, 
and  preparations  were  made  to  attack  what  was  supposed  to 
be  the  vanguard  of  the  American  army,  but  what  in  reality 
would  be  the  chief  force  of  the  "  Legion." 

On  the  15th,  the  Americans,  as  Pollock  had  sent  word, 
moved  forward.  Litcomb,  with  Peggy  as  an  aid-de-camp, 
had  been  placed  in  charge  of  the  small  body  of  Indians  who 
were  to  attempt  the  rescue  of  Campbell  ;  but  his  followers 
in  name  were  his  masters  in  reality,  and  he  found  that  he 
was  neither  to  choose  his  ground  or  arrange  his  plan  of 
attack  :  his  function,  indeed,  was  limited  to  appearing  in  his 
regimentals  and  bespeaking  the  favor  of  his  fellow-soldiers. 
Nor  was  this  all,  for,  while  no  other  arms  were  allowed  him 
than  his  sword,  two  of  the  grimmest  of  the  grim  Hurons, 
with  unfailing  rifle  and  tomahawk,  were  obviously  placed  to 
watch  him  through  the  contest.  Such  had  been  the  advice 
of  Matthew  Elliot.  The  Lieutenant,  seeing  these  things, 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  and  his  wife  must  die,  whatever 
the  result  of  the  conflict  might  be.  If  the  Indians  were 


430          ^  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

destroyed,  it  would  not  be  till  they  had  first  slain"  their  de- 
ceivers; and  if  they  escaped  annihilation  by  the  forces  of 
Wayne,  the  stake  and  brand  would  surely  become  the  por- 
tion of  the  white  spies,  —  for  it  was  not  to  be  doubted  that 
the  appearance  of  the  whole  American  army  would  satisfy 
the  Indians  that  they  had  been  deceived. 

As  he  ruminated  these  things,  and  meditated  what  advice 
he  ought  to  give  Peggy  under  the  circumstances,  the  party 
reached  the  place  selected  for  the  attack ;  it  was  where  a 
marsh,  filled  with  weeds  and  bushes,  extended  parallel  to 
the  river,  leaving  room  for  the  whites  to  pass  on  solid  ground 
between  it  and  the  bank,  but  of  such  a  character  that  no 
troops  could  enter  it.  Here  the  savages  were  concealed 
with  great  care,  and  with  instructions  to  shoot  down  from 
their  cover  every  officer  that  came  in  sight,  and  then,  show- 
ing themselves,  with  Litcomb  at  their  head,  to  call  for  the 
discontented  of  the  American  force  to  join  them.  In  order 
to  mislead  the  faithfnl  scouts  of  Wayne,  a  few  Indians  were 
to  show  themselves  at  the  west  end  of  the  rnorass,  and  pass 
north  toward  the  woods,  as  if  to  a  main  body  concealed 
there. 

Day  was  just  breaking  as  these  arrangements  were  all 
completed  by  the  Wyandots,  and  as  the  light  veiled  the 
stars,  Litcomb  perceived  with  a  joy  that  almost  forced  him 
to  shout  in  triumph,  a  fog  rising  from  the  river  and  marsh 
that  would  soon  wrap  every  thing  in  uncertainty. 

While  the  Hurons  and  their  half-trusted  white  allies  were 
making  these  preparations,  the  army  of  the  States  began  to 
move,  and  Pollock  with  Johnny  Grant,  to  whom  he  had 
communicated  every  thing,  took  his  place  as  a  scout  in  ad- 
vance of  the  regulars.  As  the  fog  enveloped  them  shortly, 
it  became  necessary  to  move  with  great  caution,  and  the 
two  spies  found  themselves  almost  at  a  loss.  It  had  been 
Pollock's  plan,  or  rather  his  hope,  to  learn  the  position  of 
his  friends  and  their  savage  attendants  before  the  army  came 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  431 

in  sight ;  and  he  doubted  not  that  he  should  be  able  to  aid 
them  to  good  purpose  if  he  could  do  so.  But  the  same  fog 
which  gave  Litcomb  some  hope  of  evading  his  watchers, 
took  from  his  friends  on  the  other  side  all  chance  of  helping 
him  to  do  so.  In  an  atmosphere  less  transparent  than  that 
of  midnight,  therefore,  the  Legion  of  Wayne,  or  rather  its 
front  guard,  which  on  that  morning  consisted  of  two  compa- 
nies about  half  a  mile  in  advance  of  the  main  body,  came  to 
the  swamp.  This  atmosphere  made  useless  the  proposed 
feint  of  the  Hurons,  and  so  the  whole  of  the  red  men,  in 
number  about  forty,  lay  listening  for  the  tramp  of  the  foe. 
But  the  mist  which  puzzled  our  friend  Pollock  defeated  also 
the  plan  suggested  by  Elliot  for  getting  rid  at  the  first  fire 
of  the  American  leaders,  and  made  it  necessary  for  a  volley 
to  be  fired  into  the  dense  mass  of  moving  soldiers,  and  then 
a  rush  made  with  tomahawks  and  knives.  Word  to  this 
effect  was  passed  from  bush  to  bush,  and  the  Lieutenant  be- 
came more  hopeful  than  ever  that,  in  the  confusion  which 
must  follow  such  a  rush,  he  and  his  helpmate  might  escape. 
The  troops  drew  near,  and  the  Indian  rifles  were  half- 
raised  to  their  positions,  —  all,  as  Litcomb  noticed,  except 
those  of  his  two  watchers,  whose  eyes  never  seemed  to  wink 
even  as  they  followed  his  slightest  movement.  Observing 
this,  he  beckoned  to  the  dim-seen  chief  who  plainly  direct- 
ed affairs,  and  saying  that,  as  his  appearance  in  such  a  mist 
would  be  useless,  it  would  be  wiser  for  him  to  go  to  the  rear 
of  the  body,  began  to  move,  with  Peggy  by  his  side,  away 
from  the  coming  troops.  The  chief  interpreted  this  sudden 
movement  as  Litcomb  meant  he  should,  into  an  evidence  of 
arrant  cowardice,  and,  with  a  smile  of  disdain,  motioned  to 
one  of  the  two  Wyandots  who  had  watched  the  Lieutenant 
to  follow  him  still,  while  he  called  the  other  to  his  own  as- 
sistance. The  tread  of  the  Americans  was  now  near  by, 
and  so  loud  as  to  make  it  needless  for  Litcomb  and  his 
attendant  to  be  very  cautious  as  to  the  sounds  they  made 


432  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

themselves ;  they  pressed  rapidly,  therefore,  toward  a  little 
hill  which  rose  at  a  short  distance  before  them,  it  being  the 
captive's  determination  to  close  with  his  guard  as  soon  as  the 
battle  began,  and  make  one  desperate  effort  for  life  and 
liberty. 

Meanwhile  Pollock  and  Johnny  Grant,  who  had  often 
gone  round  and  through  this  swump  in  their  excursions,  had 
determined  to  examine  it  this  morning,  as  they  thought  it 
not  unlikely  the  Indians  might  be  there.  Entering  it  on  the 
rear,  they  had  discovered  the  ambuscade,  and,  retreating 
again,  lay  concealed  among  the  bushes  of  the  hillock,  to- 
wards which  Litcomb,  Peggy,  and  the  Huron  were  hasten- 
ing, it  having  been  their  intention  to  attack  the  rear  of  the 
Indians  while  engaged  with  the  companies  in  front.  But 
when  they  saw  the  Lieutenant,  the  boy  Peter,  and  their 
companion,  and  comprehended,  as  they  soon  did,  how  mat- 
ters stood,  their  plan  changed,  and  they  lay  in  utter  silence, 
waiting  the  attack  in  front  of  them  to  shoot  the  frowning 
Wyandot,  who,  on  his  side,  itched  to  slay  and  scaip  the 
pale-face  that  took  him  from  the  skirmish  with  its  harvest 
of  hair. 

A  few  moments  only  passed  before  the  expected  attack 
took  place  ;  the  Indian  rifles  gave  one  fatal  discharge,  the 
shriek  of  death  sounded  in  the  ears  of  the  bewildered  sol- 
diers, and  the  savages  with  knife  and  hatchet  were  among 
them.  At  this  instant,  Litcomb  sprang  to  his  feet  to  battle 
for  himself,  when,  to  his  wonder,  the  tall  Indian  before  him 
was  bent  double,  and,  with  a  shiver  and  a  groan,  fell  to  his 
knee,  and  forward  upon  his  face.  The  bullet  of  Pollock 
had  gone  through  his  heart.  The  instant  appearance  of  that 
worthy  and  his  companion,  explained  all,  and  there  was  no 
time  for  words.  But  what  next  ?  The  three  men  must 
plunge  into  the  foggy  fight,  so  much  was  certain,  —  but  for 
Peggy?  She  said  she  was  not  afraid,  —  no  one  would  touch 
her  there,  —  and,  speedily  concealing  herself,  bade  her  hus- 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  433 

band  take  the  rifle  of  the  fallen  Indian,  and  prove  by  his 
acts  that  he  was  no  traitor  to  Wayne.  It  was  the  only  plan 
to  be  thought  of,  and  the  three  Americans,  with  arms  in 
readiness  for  action,  moved  cautiously  through  the  mist,  so 
as  to  come  upon  the  rear  of  the  savages,  if  they  were  acting 
still  under  cover  of  the  bushes,  and  left  Peggy  to  her  fate. 

To  her  fate !  could  Litcomb  have  foreseen  it,  he  would 
sooner  have  poured  the  contents  of  his  rifle  into  her  bosom 
than  have  left  her. 

Bill  Strong  had  been  aware  that  Pollock  had  suspected 
him  of  foul  play  for  a  day  or  two  past ;  and  when  the  two 
scouts  set  forth  that  morning,  Strong  dogged  their  steps, 
and  at  the  moment  of  the  rescue  of  Litcomb  lay  not  twenty 
yards  off,  watching  for  an  opportunity  of  closing  Pollock's 
mouth,  and  stilling  his  brain  for  ever.  He  understood,  from 
the  little  he  could  see  and  the  little  he  could  hear,  that 
Peggy,  though  in  disguise,  was  present,  and  that  she  was 
left  to  her  fate.  He  waited  till  his  comrades  were  far 
enough  away,  crept  to  her  hiding-place,  and  before  she 
was  aware,  seized  her,  bound  her  mouth,  confined  her 
limbs,  and  before  her  husband  had  closed  with  the  enemy 
was  bearing  the  captive  of  his  treachery  away  in  his  arms 
as  readily  as  a  lion  bears  the  antelope  of  the  desert. 

The  skirmish  over,  and  it  did  not,  could  not,  last  long, 
for  the  body  of  the  legion  came  quickly  up,  our  Lieutenant 
and  his  friend  hastened  back  to  the  hillock,  but  no  boy  Pe- 
ter was  there.  Their  quick  eyes,  however,  detected  the 
heavy  foot  of  a  larger  man  than  either  of  them  in  the  prints 
upon  the  neighbouring  marsh,  and  these  they  followed  until 
they  were  lost  amid  the  crowd  of  marks  which  showed 
where  the  savages  had  retreated  when  they  found  that  no 
desertion  took  place  from  the  American  ranks  to  their  own. 
All  individual  traces  being  lost  there  of  necessity,  Litcomb, 
more  mournful  than  ever,  returned  to  the  American  army. 
We  cannot  stop  to  detail  how  the  Lieutenant,  Pollock, 
VOL.  i.  37 


434  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

and  the  Canadian,  by  their  joint  evidence,  proved  the  inno- 
cence of  Arthur  Campbell,  and  the  guilt  of  Strong.  We 
need  not  dwell  on  the  interview,  in  which  Arthur,  as  the 
only  reward  for  his  fidelity,  asked  leave  to  seek  his  sister. 
Nor  can  we  follow  him  in  those  investigations  which  led 
him  to  think  she  had  fallen  into  the  hands  that  had  sought 
her  husband's  blood,  and  that  in  some  way,  probably  through 
losing  his  path  in  the  fog,  Strong  and  his  victim  had  passed 
into  the  power  of  the  Hurons.  We  must  content  our- 
selves with  saying  that  Arthur,  informed  by  Litcomb  of 
the  devotion  to  Peggy  of  the  Indian  girl  she  had  helped 
when  poisoned,  made  up  his  mind  to  visit  the  camp  of  the 
savages,  wherever  it  might  be,  and  to  effect  the  freedom  of 
his  sister  or  share  her  fate. 

It  is  near  the  noon  of  the  17th  of  August,  three  days 
before  the  battle  which  closed  our  Indian  wars  in  Ohio. 
The  survivors  of  the  skirmish  of  the  15th,  and  in  the  dark- 
ness of  that  day  few  on  either  side  had  been  killed,  had 
rejoined  the  main  body  of  Indians,  some  fifty  miles  below 
Grand  Glaize,  and  had  borne  with  them,  chance  prisoners, 
Strong  and  his  prey,  who  had  wandered  into  their  hands. 
The  sex  of  Peggy  had  been  discovered,  and  while  the  squaw 
she  had  saved  was  thereby  more  bound  to  her  than  ever, 
the  mass  of  the  savages  became  perfectly  satisfied  that  all 
the  whites  who  had  been  among  them  as  deserters  were  in 
truth  spies  and  deceivers.  Having  lost  Campbell  and  Lit- 
comb, therefore,  they  condemned  to  death  by  fire  the  only 
two  in  their  clutches,  Peggy  and  her  brutal  gallant.  It  is, 
as  we  have  said,  near  noon  of  the  17th,  —  clear,  crystal- 
line, summer  weather.  The  natives  are  gathered  in  a  large 
opening,  in  the  midst  of  which  Strong  and  his  fainting  com- 
panion are  bound  among  the  selected  fagots  by  the  hands 
of  the  torture-loving  squaws;  and,  strange  to  see,  the  girl 
that  had  been  bitten  by  the  serpent,  and  her  mother,  are 
most  active  of  all  in  binding  her  benefactress  to  the  stake, 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  435 

and  pouring  insults  into  her  ears.  The  chiefs  come  forth  ; 
the  crowd  presses  into  a  more  regular  circle  ;  the  torches 
are  waving  in  the  hands  of  the  old  women,  volunteer  execu- 
tioners ;  a  moment  more  and  all  will  be  alight,  when  from 
the  outside  of  the  throng  arises  a  cry,  shrieking  and  scold- 
ing, mingled  with  a  laugh  so  full  of  madness  that  the  blood 
was  chilled  by  it.  The  fire-kindlers  pause  ;  the  cries  in- 
crease ;  the  crowd  wavers  and  parts,  and,  rushing  through  it 
bent  almost  horizontally,  comes  a  human  being  with  matted 
hair,  torn  clothing,  a  skin  bleeding  from  a  hundred  wounds, 
and  eyes  like  those  of  the  hyena.  A  delirious,  raging  white 
man,  —  a  prophet,  an  inspired,  God-protected  white  man, 
—  and  from  the  fragments  of  his  clothing,  it  would  seem 
a  Canadian.  All  stand  amazed,  doubtful.  With  a  cry  of 
madness  the  new-comer  springs  upon  the  torch-bearers, 
snatches  their  brands  and  extinguishes  them  ;  then,  laugh- 
ing and  dancing,  takes  his  place  before  the  doomed.  The 
Indians  look  on,  awe-struck,  overcome.  The  madman,  or 
prophet,  scoops  with  his  nails  a  little  hollow  in  front  of  each 
prisoner,  —  blows  into  it ;  then  on  each  side  he  scoops  oth- 
ers, and  so,  too,  behind.  And  now  he  takes  the  extinguished, 
but  yet  smoking  torch,  closes  his  hands  over  it,  raises  it  to 
the  sun,  mutters  a  few  words  of  magic,  and  it  bursts  into  a 
flame  again ;  then  he  passes  round  the  condemned  with  his 
taper,  and,  as  he  goes,  a  circle  of  fire  kindles  along  the 
ground  behind  him,  and  from  the  cavities  he  had  hollowed 
clouds  of  dense  white  smoke  arise.  Nay,  with  a  shudder, 
the  Indians  see  that  it  is  pouring  from  the  man  himself, — 
he  seems  about  to  burst  into  flames,  and,  as  he  approaches, 
the  boldest  warrior  shrieks  and  falls  back.  Again  and  again 
the  stranger  conjuror  walks  his  round  until  his  own  form  is 
undistinguishable,  and  the  victims  are  lost  in  the  vapor, 
which  rolls  away  into  the  woods  on  the  north,  and  from  the 
fumes  of  which  all  turn  dismayed.  And  now  in  front,  toward 
the  river,  from  the  white  smoke-cloud  burst  colored  flames, 


436  THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

blue,  yellow,  red,  purple ;  and,  more  astounded  than  ever, 
the  crowd  presses  to  behold  the  miracle.  Then  the  flames 
cease ;  the  smoke  thins  ;  the  crowd  slackens  and  wavers 
back.  But  where  is  the  conjuror  ?  Where  the  woman  that 
should  have  died  ?  Where  the  Wyandot  girl  that  had  been 
saved  from  death  by  her,  and  yet  bound  her  death  bonds  ? 
Did  she  bind  them  too  slackly  ?  Strong  stands  where  he 
was ;  but  the  post  of  the  woman  is  vacant. 

It  is  evening  of  the  same  day;  let  us  glance  at  two  scenes 
and  we  are  done. 

At  the  spot  where  the  two  spies  were  to  have  been 
burnt  that  day,  are  gathered  again  a  multitude.  They 
come  now,  not  with  the  torch,  for  they  are  yet  doubtful 
as  to  the  power  that  defeated  them  at  noon,  but  with 
their  rifles.  Strong  is  bound  to  a  tree  ;  his  body  to  the 
waist  is  bound  ;  and,  as  the  sun  sinks  towards  the  horizon, 
the  young  men  of  the  Shawanesc  practise  at  a  distance 
their  hands,  and  eyes,  and  guns,  upon  the  wretched  suffer- 
er ;  and  inch  by  inch,  minute  by  minute,  cut  his  flesh  and 
spill  his  blood,  but  shun  the  heart  and  the  brain. 

Round  their  camp-fire  at  the  head  of  the  Rapids,  where 
they  had  just  arrived,  sat  Litcomb,  Pollock,  Grant,  and  an 
officer  connected  with  the  artillery  department.  The  latter  is 
telling  his  companions  of  the  wonders  of  pyrotechny,  of  the 
wonders  that  ean  be  wrought  by  sun-glasses  and  means  as 
simple  as  the  kindling  of  a  common  fire.  "  And  all  this," 
says  Litcomb,  "  you  laid  before  him  ?  " 

"For  the  year  past,"  answers  the  artillerist,  "Arthur  has 
been  using  his  quiet  movements  in  the  study  of  these  se- 
crets, little  dreaming  that  he  should  ever  use  them  as  he  has 
done,  I  trust,  to-day." 

The  Lieutenant  looks,  however,  more  mournful  than 
hopeful ;  he  has  faith,  and  so  have  his  companions,  in  fire 
applied  to  a  musket  or  a  rifle,  but  smoke  they  make  little 
opinion  of,  except  when  used  to  make  bacon  ;  and  as  for  col- 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  437 

ored  flames,  they  take  those  to  be  Satan's  private  property. 
So  they  sit,  more  and  more  mournful,  when,  like  a  thunder- 
clap, Anthony  himself  bursts  in,  laughing  till  the  tears  run 
down  his  cheeks,  and  bringing  with  him  the  conjuror  and 
the  captive,  the  victim  and  the  hypochondriac. 


37 


A    WEEK    AMONG    THE    "KNOBS." 


"  BEFORE  you  leave  us,"  said  the  Judge  one  morning  as 
we  were  waging  war  against  the  corn-cakes  and  honey- 
comb,—  "  before  you  leave  us,"  said  he,  "  I  reckon  you  'd 
like  to  see  a  specimen  of  the  Kentuck  nabob  ;  so,  if  you 
please,  we  '11  step  over  the  first  fair  day  to  Colonel  Mar- 
shall's, and  make  a  call."  "  How  far  is  it  ?  "  asked  I. 
"Thirty-five  miles,"  said  the  Judge.  "And  you  are  going 
thirty-five  miles  to  make  a  call  ?  "  "  Ay,  my  dear  fellow  ; 
what  's  your  trouble  ?  We  '11  call  round  and  spend  a 
week,  —  make  a  Kentucky  call  ;  that  's  the  idea." 

In  the  course  of  a  couple  of  days  the  wind  veered  west- 
ward, and  the  young  leaves  of  the  surrounding  forests,  and 
the  herbage  of  the  knobs  and  valleys,  came  forth  greener 
and  brighter  than  ever.  The  thousand  birds,  whose  names 
I  know  not,  sung  merrily  ;  the  calves  in  the  meadow  gam- 
bolled ;  the  young  colts  frolicked,  and  the  honey-bees  hum- 
med round  the  open  windows  in  momentary  idleness  ;  the 
very  swine  that  rooted  and  grunted  in  the  orchard  seemed 
to  be  more  light-hearted,  and  to  grunt  with  more  gout. 
But  though  the  little  run  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  which 
had  foamed  and  sputtered  so  two  days  before,  was  now 
quiet  and  civil  again,  yet  the  creek,  we  were  told  by  old 
man  Anderson,  was  still  too  high  for  a  dry  passage,  and  we 
determined  to  wait  another  dav  and  let  it  run  down.  The 


A    WEEK    AMONG    THE    "  KNOBS."  439 

next  morning  in  due  season  arrived,  as  bright  and  as  merry 
as  any  young  belle  of  the  country  round;  and,  our  horses 
being  brought  to  the  block,  we  mounted  and  set  off  amid  the 
shouts  of  twenty  little  negroes,  whose  hearts  leaped  for  joy  to 
think  that  "  massa  would  be  gone  long  while,"  and  they 
escape  "  mazing  deal  o'  work."  The  roads  were  somewhat 
deep,  and  our  "  leggins  "  became  very  much  spattered,  and 
my  own  feet  soaked  ;  but  the  Judge,  more  used  to  Kentucky 
riding,  managed  to  cross  the  creeks  dryshod.  However,  it 
was  warm,  and  my  blood  was  running  swiftly,  and  I  cared 
not  a  whit  for  wet  feet.  The  Judge  had  a  bottle  of  cherry- 
bounce  too,  and  that  he  reckoned  was  enough  to  thaw  us  out 
had  we  slept  twenty  years  under  an  iceberg.  As  we  jour- 
neyed, the  Judge  gave  me  a  clew  to  the  character  of  the 
Colonel.  "  He  's  a  very  fair  specimen,"  said  he,  "  of  the 
noble  Kentuckian,  with  all  his  faults  and  all  his  virtues.  He 
was  born  here  in  a  log  fort,  brought  up  with  a  tomahawk  in 
one  hand  and  a  bowl  of  mush  and  milk  in  the  other,  until 
he  was  big  enough  to  tote  a  rifle,  and  then  he  took  to  that. 
He  fought  the  Indians  while  there  were  any  to  fight,  and 
when  they  were  gone  turned  to  and  farmed.  He  raised 
stock,  and  still  does  so,  and  receives  ten  thousand  dollars 
cash  for  what  he  sends  to  market  yearly.  He  was  a  colonel 
in  our  last  war,  and  did  wonders  in  some  of  the  frontier 
skirmishes  ;  for  his  courage  is  that  of  a  lion,  and  his 
strength,  too,  for  that  matter.  In  high  party  times,  when  it 
was  dangerous  to  go  to  the  polls  unarmed,  Marshall  did  more 
than  any  man  about  to  keep  the  rabble  in  order.  They 
feared  him,  for  if  his  word  was  not  heeded,  they  knew  his 
fist,  foot,  cudgel,  dirk,  pistol,  and  rifle  were  all  ready  to 
enforce  obedience.  He  's  a  man  of  strong  prejudices,  and 
despises  the  Yankees;  so  you  must  mind  and  not  let  out  that 
you  're  one.  For  myself,  he  forgives  my  Yankee  origin, 
and  swears  '  by  Old  Virginny  '  it  was  a  mistake.  His  hos- 
pitality is  unbounded  ;  cheap  as  living  is  to  a  planter,  all  his 


440  A    WEEK    AMONG    THE    "  KNOBS." 

ten  thousand  a  year  goes  to  the  winds  in  a  mighly  small  time. 
In  short,  he  's  rough  as  a  bear,  noble  as  a  lion,  kind  and 
faithful  as  a  mastiff,  and  withal  full  of  that  wisdom  which 
comes  from  men,  and  not  books,  from  studying  character 
and  nature,  and  tracing  for  himself  effects  to  causes." 

We  spent  the  night  at  a  little  inn  on  the  road,  and  the 
next  day  about  noon  reached  the  place  of  our  destination. 
We  entered  through  a  very  rusty  and  broken  gate,  which 
slammed  to  behind  us,  as  if  very  much  offended  at  being 
opened,  upon  a  natural  park.  The  greensward  was  short 
and  velvety  ;  the  undulation  of  the  surface  and  roundness  of 
the  declivities,  almost,  as  it  seemed,  artificial;  while  the  scat- 
tered clumps  of  trees,  beneath  which  the  cattle  and  horses 
stood  in  sleepy  and  solemn  happiness,  gave  to  the  scene  an 
English  air,  which  was  scarce  destroyed  by  the  worm-fences 
and  droves  of  swine,  both  truly  American  accompaniments. 
Nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  road  stood  the  man- 
sion, half  seen,  half  hidden  by  the  mass  of  foliage  which 
covered  the  trees  and  vines  around  it.  It  was  a  rather  old- 
fashioned  looking  domicile,  with  large  windows,  having  very 
clumsy  frames  and  small  glasses  or  lights,  and  with  a  long 
piazza  or  stoop  upon  the  north  and  east  sides.  The  main 
building  was  flanked  by  two  smaller  ones,  and  surrounded 
by  an  infinity  of  log-cabins,  barns,  stables,  and  I  know  not 
what  all. 

Soon  after  we  entered  the  park,  we  started  a  whole  covey 
of  little  woolly-headed  fellows,  who  grinned,  turned  up  their 
great  eyes  at  us,  and  then  set  out  for  another  part  of  the 
domain  with  all  speed,  tumbling  now  and  then  head  over 
heels  as  they  rushed  down  the  hill-side.  The  pigs,  too,  half 
wild,  would  start  as  we  came  near  them,  look  up,  give  a 
quick,  sharp,  angry  grunt,  and  scamper  away  as  their' an- 
cestors of  the  forests  of  Europe  did  before  them.  Presently, 
as  we  came  near  the  white  garden-fence,  we  were  brought 
to  by  a  voice  from  the  right.  "  Halloo,  Judge,"  shouted 


A   WEEK    AMONG   THE    "  KNOBS."  441 

some  one,  "  I  reckon  you  aint  your  spectacles  on  this  morn- 
ing, or  else  your  Yankee  blood  is  getting  the  better  of  your 
Kentucky  raising";  and  as  he  spoke,  the  speaker  pushed 
his  way,  his  rifle  in  advance,  through  a  mass  of  shrubbery 
on  one  side  the  path.  He  was  a  tall  man,  and  stout  almost 
to  corpulency ;  his  face  was  square,  his  mouth  small,  lips 
thin,  his  nose  hooked,  and  from  under  his  gray 'and  knitted 
brows  his  eyes  shone  with  a  look  of  suspicion  and  defiance  ; 
his  head  was  gray,  as  I  saw  from  the  long  locks  which  fell 
upon  his  coat-collar,  and  his  breast  was  open.  "  Ah,  Colo- 
nel," said  the  Judge,  as  the  Colonel  wiped  his  brow,  "  so 
we  've  caught  you  playing  Indian,  lurking  in  the  bushes  ?  " 
"  Playing  Indian,  indeed  !  "  said  the  other  ;  "  I  reckon  if  I 
play  Indian  with  you,  most  learned  Judge,  't  will  be  with  El- 
len's shot-gun  or  Aunt  Dinah's  syringe,  and  not  this  old  deer- 
killer  ;  but  who 's  this  you  've  got  along,  Judge  ?  "  "  This," 
answered  the  man  of  law,  "  is  a  young  shoot  of  the  Buckeye 
bar  ;  he  came  over  to  see  some  of  the  wild  Kentucks,  and 
so  I  brought  him  down  to  spend  a  week  with  you."  "  He  's 
right  welcome,"  and  the  Colonel  strode  up  and  shook  me 
fiercely  by  the  hand,  —  "  he  's  right  welcome,  I  say,  and  I 
reckon  if  he  don't  find  us  Kentucks  wild  as  we  were,  he  '11 
not,  at  any  rate,  think  us  too  tame.  So  come,  stranger,  you 
go  on  to  the  house,  and  I  '11  soon  join  you  ;  and  mind,  now, 
you  need  n't  knock,  as  I  'm  told  they  do  in  Cincinnati.  I 
reckon  we  don't  do  nothing  in  our  house  we  're  afraid  to 
have  the  world  see  "  ;  and  so  saying,  with  long  and  rapid 
strides  the  Kentuckian  took  his  way  for  the  wood. 

We  jogged  on  to  the  door,  threw  our  reins  to  an  old  negro 
who  stood  ready  to  receive  them,  and  who  took  ofF  his 
remnant  of  a  hat  to  the  Judge  with  an  unutterable  grin,  and 
walked  into  the  house  without  knocking.  My  friend  had 
told  me  that  the  Colonel's  wife  was  dead,  and  that  he  had 
but  a  single  daughter,  Ellen,  upon  whom  he  had  not,  how- 
ever, expatiated,  and  in  whom  I  expected  to  find  a  very 


442  A    WEEK    AMONG    THE    "KNOBS." 

ordinary  maiden.  What,  then,  was  my  surprise,  when, 
having  thrown  our  saddlebags  into  a  corner,  hung  up  our 
overcoats  and  hats,  disposed  of  our  leggins,  and  walked 
into  the  parlour,  I  saw  through  a  window  which  looked  out 
to  the  west  a  girl  of  eighteen  dancing  along  the  grassplat, 
her  straw  bonnet  hanging  upon  her  shoulders,  her  light 
shawl  wrapped  round  one  arm,  her  dark  hair  swaying  with 
the  motion,  and  a  face,  form,  and  complexion  which  some- 
how went  direct  to  my  heart,  or  rather  the  place  where 
my  heart  should  have  been,  for  it  had  been  absent  some 
time.  She  evidently  did  not  know  any  strangers  had  come, 
and,  singing  as  she  ran  and  skipped  along,  was  at  a  back- 
door and  in  the  room  before  I  could  say  a  word  to  my  com- 
rade. Seeing  us,  she  stopped,  blushed,  and  then,  recogniz- 
ing the  Judge,  sprang  past  me,  grasped  his  hand,  welcomed 
him  warmly,  and  then,  bless  me,  kissed  him !  I  drew  my 
breath  as  one  does  when  he  steps  into  a  bath  of  cold  water. 
She  turned  to  me,  —  the  Judge  introduced  us,  and,  with  a 
mingled  delicacy  and  freedom  of  bearing  that  might  have 
done  honor  to  the  goddess  Diana,  she  took  my  hand  and 
bade  me  welcome.  But  there  was  no  kiss  then,  —  in  truth,  I 
did  not  expect  one. 

"  Did  you  see  my  father  ?  " 

"Yes,  he  met  us  in  the  path,  rifle  in  hand." 

"  Was  there  a  young  man  with  him  ?  " 

"  No  ;  is  there  one  staying  here  ?  " 

"  There  is,  —  a  young  man  from  your  own  Yankee  land. 
Mr.  Clay  gave  him  letters  to  father." 

"  A  Yankee  !  Why  is  he  here  ?  I  should  think  your 
father  would  be  afraid  to  have  him  in  the  house." 

"  So  he  is,  and  plagues  poor  Ned  almost  to  death.  He  's 
been  here  for  a  month  past ;  I  don't  know  what  for,  I  'm 
sure,  but  I  reckon  he  wants  to  write  a  book  about  us,  for 
he  's  always  in  his  own  room,  scribbling  like  a  mad  man. 
But  I  must  see  to  your  rooms  and  your  dinner,  and  tell 


A    WEEK    AMONG    THE   "KNOBS."  443 

Job  to  turn  your  horses  out.  Where  is  your  baggage,  or  I 
suppose,  as  a  Kentucky  girl,  I  should  say,  plunder?  In  the 
entry  ?  Well,  good-by  till  dinner-time.  And  so  Julia  's  mar- 
ried, is  she  ?  How  funny  it  seems  !  Does  she  look  much 
older?  "  Then,  turning  to  me  with  that  same  kind  smile 
again,  she  said,  pointing  to  a  book-case,  "  If  you  should  wish 
to  read,  Sir,  we  have  a  few  volumes,  not  written  in  Chero- 
kee, either.  I  have  some  in  my  room  beside,  and  if  you 
are  not  as  afraid  of  a  lady's  boudoir  as  Ned  Vaughan  is, 
come,  and  I  '11  show  you  the  way  to  my  castle."  And 
away  she  went,  as  light  and  rapid  as  if  innocence  and  health 
had  clothed  her  with  unseen  wings.  She  took  me  to  her 
room,  a  little  attic,  crowded  with  books,  and  pictures,  and 
flowers,  and  needle-work,  upon  which  the  sunlight  played 
fitfully,  falling  through  a  curtain  of  leaves,  and  bidding  me 
consider  it  all  my  property,  "  except  the  needle-work,"  said 
she,  "  and  the  rest,  when  I  want  to  be  alone,"  away  she 
bounded  again,  leaving  me  standing  in  her  boudoir,  in  a 
happy  maze  of  wonder,  admiration,  and  —  let  me  see,  I 
think  the  proper  word  is  —  respect.  I  took  up  a  book  which 
lay  open  upon  the  table,  and  started  to  find  it  was  an  English 
edition  of  Coleridge's  Friend,  the  margin  crowded  with  pen- 
cil writing,  and  Ellen  Marshall's  name  upon  the  title-page. 
To  find  a  woman  who  could  con  amore  read  Coleridge,  in 
the  wilds  of  Kentucky,  took  me  by  surprise,  and  I  never  so 
envied  the  philosopher  of  Highgate  Hill  as  at  that  moment. 
By  its  side  was  a  volume  containing  translations  of  several 
of  Schiller's  plays  ;  below  this  was  Madame  de  Stael's  Ger- 
many, then  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  and  I  cannot  say  what 
else,  for  the  rush  of  thoughts  into  my  head  made  it  swim. 

To  give  the  particulars  of  our  sojourn  at  Echo  Vale  (for 
so  the  estate  is  named)  would  take  too  much  time  and  pa- 
per ;  a"nd  I  will  merely  sketch  as  I  can  the  scene  of  the  day 
before  our  intended  departure.  It  was  Ellen's  birthday,  and 
the  house  was  thrown  open  to  all,  friends  and  strangers. 


444  A    WEEK    AMONG    THE    "  KNOBS." 

But  first  of  Edward  Vaughan,the  young  New-Englander, 
of  whom  I  have  as  yet  said  nothing.  The  truth  was,  that 
he  proved  to  be  a  highly  respectable,  talented,  and  good- 
hearted  fellow,  and  was,  as  I  soon  discovered,  dead  in  love 
with  Ellen.  The  Colonel  liked  him  in  all  points,  only  that 
he  was  a  Yankee ;  how  the  lady  looked  upon  him  may  be 
guessed  from  the  transactions  of  that  last  fatal  day. 

A  week  of  fine  weather  soon  passed  amid  hunting,  and 
riding,  and  racing,  and  shooting,  and  fishing,  and  gardening, 
and  eating,  and  drinking,  and  the  other  occupations  of  a 
Kentucky  gentleman,  not  to  mention  the  devotion  of  an  hour 
or  two  a  day  to  my  backwoods  blue-stocking,  whom  I  found 
as  much  deeper  than  myself  in  the  mysteries  of  belles-lettres 
as  in  those  of  woodcraft,  and  who.  as  her  tastes  and  habits 
were  at  variance  with  those  around  her,  seized  upon  me  as 
a  fellow-countryman  in  a  foreign  land,  and  read  with  me 
and  talked  with  me  in  a  manner  most  dangerous  and  be- 
witching. Vaughan  was  afraid  to  trust  himself  alone  with 
her,  but  why  was  a  mystery  to  her.  "  I  won't  bite  you," 
she  said,  as  he  turned  off  to  his  solitary  chamber,  while  I 
bounded  up  to  her  little  studio.  "  Look  at  /tm,"  she  con- 
tinued, pointing  to  me, "  he  is  not  either  dead  or  crazy, 
Edward,  though  he  comes  to  my  enchanted  castle  ten  times 
a  day."  But  poor  Ned  shook  his  pate,  and  went  his  way  sor- 
rowfully, for  he  would  not  do  any  thing  to  bring  about  what 
he  knew  would  make  the  Colonel  mad  and  miserable,  though 
he  could  not  at  the  same  time  but  linger  round  the  treasure  he 
dared  not  touch.  "  What  a  pity,"  she  said  to  me,  as  I  threw 
open  the  little  window,  "  what  a  pity  he  's  so  silent  and  her- 
mitish!  I  really  think  he  must  be  in  love."  Then,  catching 
my  eye,  she  blushed,  though  why  she  could  not  have  told  for 
her  life  ;  and,  taking  the  volume  we  were  reading,  "  Come, 
Mr.  Sarcastic,"  said  she, "  read  your  lesson,  like  a  good  boy, 
and  don't  stand  there  staring  at  your  mistress  "  ;  and  at  the 
word  mistress  she  blushed  again.  In  ten  minutes  we  were 


A   WEEK    AMONG    THE    "  KNOBS."  445 

deep  in  the  lore  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  as  I  gazed  on  her 
yet  flushed  countenance,  over  which  the  sunlight  gleamed, 
broken  by  the  leaves  of  the  honeysuckle  which  shrouded 
the  window,  and  her  own  fair  tresses,  I  did  long  to  be 
a  limner ;  not  that  she  looked  so  very  beautiful,  but  be- 
cause she  looked  so  good,  so  kind,  so  Christian.  A  week, 
I  say,  soon  passed  ;  every  day  one  or  more  persons  were 
with  us,  but  when  Ellen's  birthday  drew  near,  they  came 
in,  not  singly,  but  by  companies  of  five  and  ten.  Every 
room,  every  outhouse,  was  filled  ;  the  pastures  teemed  with 
horses,  and  saddlebags  were  as  plenty  as  blackberries. 
Ellen  was  forced  to  give  up  her  chamber,  and  sleep  in  the 
little  attic,  so  that  my  visits  there  were  at  an  end. 

The  eventful  day  came,  clothed  in  beauty.  Nature  her- 
self seemed  to  consider  it  a  kind  of  Sabbath  ;  at  least,  in  our 
eyes  it  appeared  so.  The  negroes,  headed  by  a  venerable 
piece  of  ebony  from'  Virginia,  woke  us  with  music  and 
dancing  ;  and,  to  the  sound  of  the  banjo  and  fiddle,  sung  most 
uncouth  songs  under  fair  Ellen's  window.  The  forenoon 
was  passed  by  some  in  shooting  at  a  mark  ;  by  others  in 
wrestling,  jumping,  running,  swinging,  or  lounging,  and  of 
the  last  I  presume  a  Kentuckian  can  do  as  much  in  as  little 
time  as  any  man  in  the  world,  that  is,  if  he  has  leisure. 
The  Colonel  and  his  daughter  were  busy  preparing  dinner. 
At  one  o'clock  we  dined.  Of  the  dinner  I  will  attempt  no 
description,  for  I  have  no  time  to  say  what  we  had  noi, 
much  less  what  we  had.  A  vast  deal  was  eaten,  and  no 
little  drank.  At  three  the  feast  was  over,  and  a  more  up- 
roarious set  of  mortals  than  came  forth  into  the  lawn,  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  of  a  summer's  day. 

Now  it  chanced  that  the  Colonel  had  been  told  by  some 
of  his  guests,  that  it  was  reported  that  Ned  Vaughan  was  to 
marry  Ellen.  It  was  a  new  idea  to  the  old  man,  and  his 
blood  was  boiling  in  a  moment  at  the  notion  of  a  Yankee 
being  wedded  to  his  daughter.  His  wrath  against  Vaughan 

VOL.  I.  38 


446  A    WEEK   AMONG    THE    "  KNOBS." 

was  not  diminished  by  that  youth's  abstinence  from,  and 
open  disapproval  of,  ardent  spirits  ;  and  he  had,  moreover, 
heard  something  about  the  iniquity  of  slavery  fall  from  him. 
"  The  swindlers,"  said  he  to  some  one  near  him,  "  they 
would  come  here  with  their  cold-water  doctrines,  their  fasts, 
their  prayers,  and  their  Abolition  notions,  and  make  us  the 
same  miserable,  snivelling,  lizard-blooded  things  with  them- 
selves, fit  only  to  dig  the  earth,  and  cheat  all  their  honest 
neighbours  ;  but  I  reckon  they  '11  find  it  mighty  hard  to 
mount  old  Kentuck,  after  all." 

In  the  kindly  state  of  mind  evidenced  by  these  words,  the 
Colonel,  when  a  ride  after  dinner  was  proposed,  ordered  Job 
to  saddle  Devildam  for  Mr.  Edward  Vaughan.  "  Why,  fa- 
ther !  "  cried  Ellen,  "  you  surely  don't  mean  so ;  Edward  's 
but  a  young  horseman,  and  you  can  scarce  govern  that  mare 
yourself."  "  Mr.  Edward  Vaughan,  if  you  please,  Miss 
Ellen,"  thundered  the  Colonel  ;  "  as  for  the  horse,  Mr. 
Vaughan  can  have  that  or  stay.  But  I  trust  he  's  not  a 
coward,  or  afraid  of  a  mare ;  if  he  be,  he  's  no  business  in 
Kentucky."  "  Father,"  replied  Ellen,  catching  his  arm, 
"  I  will  stay,  and  Mr.  Vaughan  can  have  Flora."  "  You 
shall  neither  stay,  nor  he  have  Flora.  Go  and  rig,  girl,  and 
say  no  more."  With  tears  in  her  eyes  she  did  so,  for  she 
saw  her  father  was  angry  and  heated  with  liquor,  and  knew 
remonstrance  would  be  useless. 

The  truth  undoubtedly  was,  that  the  old  man  wished  to 
make  Vaughan  ridiculous  by  putting  him  upon  a  horse  he 
could  not  control,  for  a  poor  horseman  in  Kentucky  meets 
with  but  little  quarter.  The  horses  were  saddled,  and  with 
many  a  whoop  and  halloo  the  company  mounted.  I  assisted 
Ellen  to  her  seat,  and  then  spoke  to  Vaughan,  who  was 
was  quietly  tightening  his  girth,  and  whose  composure  was 
not  shaken,  though  he  had  heard  all  the  conversation  which 
had  taken  place,  and  knew  his  danger.  "  Never  mind," 
said  he,  "  faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady."  I  smiled,  and  so 


A    WEEK    AMONG    THE    "  KNOBS."  447 

did  he,  at  the  appropriateness  of  the  proverb.  We  mounted 
and  were  off.  At  first  Vaughan's  mare  was  restive,  but  he 
soon  made  her  almost  as  calm  as  himself,  and  trotted  quietly 
on  by  the  side  of  Flora  and  her  mistress.  The  Colonel, 
finding  his  plans  were  making  things  worse  instead  of 
better,  determined  that,  if  the  mare  would  not  go  of  her  own 
accord,  he  'd  make  her,  and  slipping  behind  his  guest  and 
daughter,  he  managed,  unobserved,  to  strike  the  mare  a 
smart  blow.  It  had  the  desired  effect ;  the  rein  was  loose, 
and  in  an  instant,  seizing  the  bit  in  her  teeth,  she  was  off. 
But  she  was  not  alone  in  her  race.  Flora  also  was  a  horse 
of  spirit ;  her  rein  was  also  loose,  and,  started  by  the  sudden 
spring  of  her  comrade,  she  was  off  like  an  arrow,  too. 
Away,  away  they  went,  now  on  the  hill,  now  lost  from  sight 
in  the  valley,  scattering  to  the  right  and  left  those  of  our 
company  who  were  in  advance.  Away,  away  they  still 
went,  side  by  side,  like  riders  on  the  course.  Presently  we 
saw  them  rising  the  side  of  a  hill  upon  a  path  which  deviated 
from  the  main  road,  and  which,  as  we  all  knew,  terminated 
in  an  abrupt  precipice,  where  the  hill  had  been  dug  away 
for  stone. 

The  Colonel,  who  had  ridden  on  in  silence  and  evident 
anxiety,  when  he  saw  the  route  the  runaways  had  taken,  set 
his  horse  at  full  speed,  shouting  as  he  did  so,  "  Ride  !  for 
Heaven's  sake,  ride,  gentlemen  !  On  !  on  !  They  will  be 
over  the  bluff,  they  will  be  killed  !  For  God's  sake  ride, 
ride  to  their  rescue !  "  and  he  was  off,  too,  like  the  wind. 
We  followed  him  as  we  could.  I  saw  the  fugitives  near  the 
top  of  the  hill  ;  I  saw  Vaughan  struggling  with  his  horse, 
and  then  he  was  by  Ellen's  side,  and,  as  I  thought,  catching 
at  her  bridle,  and  then  we  swept  down  into  the  hollow  and 
lost  sight  of  them.  When  we  gained  the  next  ridge,  there 
was  but  one  horse  to  be  seen,  and  but  one  figure,  and  that 
was  not  erect.  On,  on  we  spurred,  and  now  the  whole 
party  is  racing  up  the  hill-side.  The  horse  that  is  in  sight 


448  A    WEEK    AMONG    THE    "  KNOBS." 

is  Flora,  the  kneeling  figure  is  Ellen.  I  shuddered  as  I 
thought  of  the  fate  of  my  late  comrade.  Nearer  and  nearer 
we  come,  and  now  we  see  that  Ellen  is  leaning  over  some- 
thing. It  is  Vaughan,  senseless  and  bathed  in  blood,  and 
she  is  chafing  his  temples.  Her  father  is  at  her  side,  and 
in  a  moment  we  all  surround  the  group. 

A  physician  chanced  to  be  of  the  party,  and,  while  he 
took  charge  of  the  wounded  man,  I  walked  to  the  edge  of 
the  precipice  ;  the  mutilated,  but  still  quivering,  creature  my 
friend  had  ridden  lay  among  the  rocks  below. 

A  few  words  from  Ellen  told  the  tale.  Vaughan  found 
they  were  approaching  certain  destruction,  and,  nearing 
Ellen,  he  managed  to  grasp  her  rein,  and  throwing  himself 
from  his  own  horse,  by  his  weight  he  succeeded  in  stopping 
Flora  in  time,  but  only  by  being  himself  trodden  under  foot 
and  almost  killed.  The  physician  pronounced  that  he  was 
only  stunned,  and  had  a  few  ribs  broken,  that  was  all.  He 
was  taken  home  on  a  litter  made  of  boughs  by  some  of  the 
woodsmen,  and  placed  in  bed.  Ellen  and  her  father  re- 
turned together,  and  neither,  I  observed,  said  one  word. 
For  forty-eight  hours  it  was  doubtful  if  Vaughan  would  live 
or  die,  but  the  third  day  he  was  much  better.  About  noon 
of  that  day  the  Colonel  came  in,  and,  after  sitting  a  few  min- 
utes in  silence,  holding  the  sick  man's  hand,  "  Edward," 
said  he,  "  you  've  not  only  saved  Ellen's  life,  but  have 
saved  me  from  being  a  murderer,  and  of  my  own  and  only 
child,"  and  he  laid  his  face  upon  the  bed.  "  Colonel  Mar- 
shall," said  Vaughan,  "  I  know  all  that  you  have  done,  and 
forgive  you.  You  meant  me  no  harm,  and  though  your 
conduct  was  rash,  it  was  not  criminal."  "  Do  you  forgive 
me  !  "  and  the  old  man  raised  his  hand  to  heaven.  "  Thea 
I  may  hope  my  Maker  will  forgive  me.  Edward  Vaughan, 
I  have  suffered  more  in  two  days  than  in  all  past  time  else, 
for  I  felt  myself  a  murderer;  but  you  have  relieved  me 
from  that  load  of  guilt.  For  Ellen,  I  know  your  wishes  ; 


A   WEEK   AMONG   THE   "  KNOBS."  449 

you  've  saved  her,  and  she  's  yours."  "  I  hope  I  may  live 
to  receive  her  from  your  hands,  Sir."  "  Live  !  you  shall 
live.  Come,  my  dear  fellow,  none  of  that  talk  ;  you  must 
live,  you  '11  soon  be  well." 

We  staid  another  week  for  Vaughan's  sake.  He  recov- 
ered rapidly,  and  though  nothing  was  said  to  Ellen  by  any 
one,  yet  from  certain  symptoms,  the  lotions  and  beverages 
that  she  made,  and  the  way  she  administered  them,  it  was 
evident  to  me  that  Coleridge,  poor  fellow,  would  soon  be 
neglected,  and  another  "  Friend  "  studied  and  noted  ;  and 
that  as  to  Jeremy  Taylor,  he  would  thenceforth  be  seldom 
called  upon,  except,  perhaps,  for  his  sermon  on  the  mar- 
riage ring. 


38* 


THE    JUDGE'S    HUNT. 


DENNIS  O'SHAUGHNESSY  was  as  true  an  Irish  lad  as  ever 
was  born  in  the  county  of  Tipperary.  His  father,  who  was 
always  in  hot  water,  —  perhaps  because  he  never  would 
meddle  with  cold,  —  mourned  and  drank  so  hard  at  his  poor 
wife's  wake  that  he  soon  slept  himself  in  consequence  ;  and, 
Dennis  was  left  with  scarce  a  friend  in  the  world,  save  the 
old  sow  that  suckled  hirn. 

There  's  a  bump  on  an  Irishman's  head  for  whiskey  ;  and 
the  poor  little  O'Shaughnessy  had  been  taught  early  in  life 
to  believe  that  drinking  the  "  raal  potheen  "  was  no  more 
than  a  short-hand  way  of  eating  potatoes ;  and  now  that  he 
was  a  lone  orphan  boy,  he  kissed  his  foster-mother,  and, 
giving  her  a  breakfast  of  the  raw  material,  took  himself  a 
little  of  the  essence,  from  the  big  jug  that  had  murdered  his 
father. 

At  eighteen  years  of  age,  as  near  as  he  could  guess, 
Dennis  came  to  America,  as  sturdy  a  young  tippler  as  ever 
worked  in  a  canal ;  full  to  the  brim  of  fun,  fight,  and  for- 
giveness ;  ready  to  work  well  and  faithfully  for  six  days,  if 
at  the  end  of  the  six  he  could  have  one  to  himself,  on  which 
to  enjoy  a  "  raal  drunk."  On  one  of  the  countless  waves  of 
emigration,  Dennis  was  cast  over  the  mountains,  and  landed 
in  a  small  settlement  in  the  east  of  Kentucky,  among  the 
Knobs, —  a  part  of  the  world  where  men  sell  their  wives  for 


THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT.  451 

rifles,  and  swap  off  a  promising  family  for  a  race-horse.  It 
is  here  that  my  story  catches  him. 

So  much  for  my  hero ;  now  let  me  introduce  the  lady. 
Contentment  Carter  was  born  in  the  valley  of  the  Housa- 
tonic,  in  the  west  of  the  respectable,  and  once  great,  State  of 
Massachusetts. 

"She  was  not  very  beautiful,  if  beautiful  it  be 
To  have  a  forehead  and  a  lip  transparent  as  the  sea." 

No,  she  was  freckled,  and  had  a  pug  nose ;  and  yet,  to  the 
swains  of  her  native  village,  she  was  "  dreadful  pooty," 
there  was  such  a  good-natured  cast  in  her  eye,  and  so  sweet 
a  welcome  in  her  smile.  She  broke  half  a  dozen  hearts 
before  she  was  twenty,  though  most  of  them  were  coopered 
up  again  by  other  damsels  of  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  yet, 
when  twenty-five  came,  she  was  still  but  'Tent  Carter,  and 
on  the  savage  side  of  the  Alleghanies. 

But  here  she  found  another  beau  more  devoted  than  even 
those  of  her  native  valley,  —  our  friend  Dennis,  of  course, 
known  at  first  as  "  Dennis  the  Biter,"  in  contradistinction  to 
some  in  the  settlement  who  were  only  snappers,  but  of  late 
more  generally  called  "  Dennis  the  Sponge,"  in  compliment 
to  his  unlimited  powers  of  soaking.  'Tent  Carter,  however, 
was  not  the  girl  to  marry  a  man  whose  gains  were  mere  con- 
solidated whiskey,  and  whose  clothes  were  all  in  tatters,  — 
in  short,  of  such  loose  habits,  —  and  so  she  told  him,  and 
left  him  to  choose  between  a  wife  and  a  whiskey-bottle. 

Things  had  staggered  to  and  fro  in  this  way  for  a  year  or 
more,  when  I  arrived  at  the  settlement,  in  company  with  my 

respected  friend,  Judge  E, ,  the  judge  of  that  district. 

Being  unable  to  go  to  business  at  once,  in  consequence  of  the 
court-house  having  been  used  as  a  barn  during  harvest,  we 
spent  the  first  day  after  arriving,  I  in  shooting,  the  Judge  in 
assisting  the  settlers  to  finish  a  large  log  building,  wherein 
justice  was  for  a  time  to  abide.  At  evening,  we  again  as- 
sembled round  the  ample  fireplace. 


452  THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT. 

The  Judge  had  just  rolled  in  a  log  which  he  had  been 
attempting  in  vain  to  split,  and  with  his  feet  upon  the  rough 
stone  jamb,  and  his  chair  at  a  comfortable  angle,  was  work- 
ing out  some  law  point,  or  thinking  over  the  Major's  account 
of  how  he  fatted  his  pigs,  when  we  were  both  startled  by 
hearing  a  number  of  voices,  and  the  trampling  of  many 
men.  The  judge  opened  the  door,  and  there  was  half  the 
village.  A  guerilla  warfare  of  question  and  answer  imme- 
diately commenced,  from  which  we  gathered,  with  much 
ditliculty,  that  Contentment  Carter  was  missing,  and  so  was 
Dennis,  her  suitor;  and  as  Dennis  was  a  mighty  desperate 
fellow,  and  Contentment  had  pulled  his  ears  publicly  only  a 
week  previous,  and  as  they  had  been  seen  together  that 
afternoon,  —  why  two  and  two  make  four,  and  it  was  voted 
unanimously  that  Dennis  ought  to  be  tracked,  and  the  poor 
girl  rescued.  The  Judge  agreed,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  it 
was  settled  that,  at  daybreak  the  next  morning,  he  and  some 
half-dozen  others  should  start  in  pursuit  of  the  kidnapper. 
This  done,  the  bustle  subsided,  the  man  of  law  again  assum- 
ed his  American  position  ;  and  I,  with  infinite  relish,  eat  my 
hoe-cake,  and  meditated  upon  my  destined  bed ;  and  in  due 
time  we  all  retired  to  our  corn-shucks. 

When  the  Judge  shook  me  in  the  morning,  although  the 
gray  streaks  of  day  were  visible,  the  stars  were  still  pursu- 
ing their  silent  and  mystic  courses,  and  a  moon  in  the  last 
quarter  looked  down  coldly  upon  the  damp  earth.  An 
October  morning  among  the  interminable  forests  of  the 
West  is  not  peculiarly  agreeable  to  a  man  whose  bones  are 
a  favorite  manor-house  of  the  rheumatism ;  and  when  I 
looked  down  into  the  run,  where  the  mist  lay  clammy  and 
dead,  and  up  at  the  dripping  trees,  and  the  skim-milk  sky, 
which  seemed  parboiled,  like  a  washer-woman's  fingers,  and 
thought  of  a  wet  horse,  and  a  soaked  saddle,  and  a  long 
stroll  through  the  damp  woods,  and  among  the  tall  weeds  of 
the  clearings,  such  a  twinge  shot  through  me,  I  thought  I 


THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT.  453 

should  have  to  turn  in  again.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  be- 
fore me  stood  our  party,  all  equipped,  save  the  Judg«,  who 
was  washing  himself  at  the  spring  ;  and  as  I  should  be  ridi- 
culed if  I  stayed,  and  might,  if  I  went,  see  some  sport,  I 
too  ducked  my  head  in  the  bucket,  saddled  my  nag,  clapped 
a  few  corn-dodgers  in  my  pocket  in  case  of  need,  and  was 
ready  as  soon  as  my  senior. 

Some  of  the  party  had  been  out  the  evening  before  and 
learnt  the  direction  in  which  Dennis  was  going  when  last 
seen  ;  and  one  said,  that  old  man  Wood,  who  had  seen  Den- 
nis, had  met  Contentment  on  her  pony  but  a  little  while 
previous.  This,  of  course,  confirmed  our  suspicions.  Fol- 
lowing our  guide,  therefore,  Indian  file,  we  descended  into 
the  run,  and  stood  up  its  course,  northwardly,  through  a  fog 
that  was  indeed  "  darkness  visible."  For  hours  we  toiled 
on  slowly,  at  times  in  the  broken  and  stony  bed  of  the 
shrunken  stream,  and  .at  times  upon  the  side  of  the  steep 
and  slippery  bank,  where  no  nags  but  those  of  the  back- 
woods could  have  trod  in  safety  ;  and  for  hours  we  could 
see  nothing  but  the  man  before  us,  and  the  ghostly  shapes 
of  the  dim  trees,  and  now  and  then  a  branch  which  stretched 
across  the  path,  apparently  self-supported  in  the  mist ;  and 
heard  no  sound  but  that  of  the  horses'  feet,  and  occasion- 
ally the  scream  of  some  startled  bird  far  in  the  tree-tops 
above  us. 

At  last,  just  as  my  patience  was  becoming  somewhat  rag- 
ged, a  halt  was  ordered.  All  of  us  that  were  rearward,  sup- 
posing the  enemy  in  sight  of  the  warriors  in  front,  prepared 
our  rifles;  and  I  felt  a  cold  sweat  stealing  over  my  body, 
and  my  teeth  began  to  chatter  most  indecorously,  until  I 
learned  that  our  party  was  here  to  separate.  Part  of  us 
struck  into  a  buffalo-track,  which  led  over  the  hills  west- 
ward, and  part  kept  on,  in  order  to  inform  an  uncle  of  Con- 
tentment's, who  lived  somewhere  in  the  distance,  of  what 
had  taken  place. 


454  THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT. 

As  we  rose  into  the  hills,  we  mounted  above  the  regions 
of  dampness,  and  made  acquaintance  with  the  morning 
sun.  On  the  brow  of  the  first  rise,  a  scrap  of  woods  of  a 
few  hundred  acres  had  been  burned,  and  we  rested,  and 
looked  back  at  the  IMuto-ish  realms  we  had  just  quitted. 
The  sun  had  been  up  long  enough  to  wake  the  mists ;  and 
around  the  distant  knobs  the  lazy  fogs  were  climbing  and 
clinging,  looking  as  loth  to  leave  their  calm  beds  as  ever 
did  a  school -boy  on  Sunday  morning;  or  perhaps  it  was 
modesty,  —  they  hated  to  be  thus  forced  to  leave  their  her- 
mit-cells, to  go  up  into  the  heavens  and  be  looked  at  all  day 
by  the  impudent  sun,  —  indeed,  they  blushed  as  they  rose. 
After  gazing  a  moment  at  the  scene,  and  breathing  our 
nags,  we  resumed  our  line  of  march,  and  for  an  hour  longer 
toiled  on  over  the  ridges  and  across  the  runs  of  the  broken 
country.  At  the  end  of  that  time  we  had  again  become 
fairly  warmed,  and,  as  our  appetites  appeared  to  promise 
well,  a  regular  halt  was  called,  and  preparations  made  for 
breakfast.  One  brought  forth  a  large  specimen  of  that  eter- 
nal Kentucky  dish,  to  wit,  bacon,  of  which  I  should  think 
more  was  eaten  yearly  in  that  State  than  the  whole  world 
produces  ;  another  presented  his  array  of  corn-bread  ;  a 
third  possessed  a  few  baked  potatoes ;  a  fourth,  a  bottle  of 
milk ;  a  fifth,  one  of  whiskey ;  and  so,  among  the  whole, 
we  soon  managed  to  congregate  a  breakfast.  A  stump 
served  us  for  a  table,  a  few  logs  for  scats,  and  at  it  we  went. 
The  Judge,  who  was  a  man  of  humor,  coarse,  racy,  and 
backwoods-like,  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of  his  hunting-shirt, 
doffed  his  cap,  and  laid  himself  out  to  entertain  us:  and 
under  his  administration  we  were  all  just  gathering  our  fac- 
ulties for  a  universal  roar,  when  his  countenance  changed, 
he  laid  his  finger  upon  his  lip,  while  his  eye  pointed  our 
attention  to  the  northern  slope  of  the  ridge  on  which  we 
were  sitting.  Upon  this  side  the  hill  fell  away  abruptly, 
and  was  covered  with  a  scanty  growth  of  some  underwood, 


THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT.  455 

—  papaw-bushes,  perhaps.  Among  these,  the  lynx-eyed 
man  of  law  had  spied  out  a  human  form  ;  and,  motioning 
all  else  to  remain  still,  he  crept,  with  his  rifle  in  hand,  to- 
ward the  object. 

Too  long  versed  in  forest  stratagems  to  be  caught  by  a 
trick,  the  Judge  glided  from  cover  to  cover,  still  approaching 
the  space  where  lay  the  object  of  his  search,  and  where  he 
must  either  expose  himself, —  there  being  in  that  spot  only 
underbrush,  as  I  said,  —  or  else  must  make  sure  of  his  game 
by  using  his  rifle ;  and  with  that  we  all  knew  he  was  able  to 
touch  a  pigeon  on  the  wing.  He  himself  seemed  disposed 
to  try  the  latter  plan,  for  when  he  came  to  the  last  tree,  we 
saw  him  stoop  ;  his  gun  was  cocked,  and  in  a  moment  more 
drawn  to  his  shoulder.  We  could  hardly  think  he  wished  to 
kill  poor  Dennis, —  if,  as  we  supposed,  it  was  he,  —  for  his 
imputed  sins,  although  he  might  wish  to  wing  him,  and  mo- 
mentarily looked  for  the  Biter  to  spring  to  his  feet,  and  show 
fight. 

For  a  moment  the  Judge's  rifle  hung  in  air,  and  then  it 
fell  into  his  open  hand  ;  and,  quitting  his  cover,  he  stepped 
on  tiptoe  to  the  prostrate  form,  bent  over  it,  and  then,  laugh- 
ing noiselessly,  beckoned  us  to  approach.  We  did,  and 
there  beheld  Dennis,  an  empty  bottle  by  his  side,  and 
breathing  with  the  ponderosity  of  one  over  whose  slumbers 
Bacchus  as  well  as  Morpheus  presides.  "  Is  this  the  var- 
mint ?"  asked  the  captor.  "  The  identical  cretur,"  said  a 
little  man  in  a  deer-skin  shirt,  whom  I  afterwards  discov- 
ered to  be  a  justice  of  peace.  "  Well,"  said  the  Judge, 
"  I  reckoned  the  skunk  was  playing  'coon  ;  but  he  's  mighty 
near  drunk,  I  guess,  by  the  buzz  he  makes."  And  so  say- 
ing, he  walked  up  the  hill,  took  the  spare  girth,  which  he 
always  carried  in  riding  the  circuit,  from  his  nag,  and,  com- 
ing down  again,  turned  Dennis  fairly  over,  and  strapped  his 
arms  behind  his  back.  This  delicate  piece  of  attention 
roused  some  consciousness  in  the  sleeper's  head,  and  a 


456  THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT. 

few  shakes  brought  him  fairly  to  life  again.  lie  looked 
round,  rubbed  his  arms  against  his  sides,  squeezed  his  lids 
hard  together,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying.  "  By  my 
shoul,"  sobbed  the  poor,  conscience-stricken  Sponge,  "  that 
last  bottle,  St.  Stephen  bedevil  it,  has  toted  me  fairly  to 
the  old  boy,  I  reckon."  "  Not  altogether  yet,  my  blossom 
of  Kentuck,"  growled  the  Judge,  as  he  led  the  unresisting 
Americano-Irishman  off  towards  the  encampment. 

There  was  a  settlement,  consisting  of  two  log  cabins,  a 
couple  of  miles  to  the  south,  and,  Dennis  being  tied  on  to  a 
horse,  we  started  for  it,  it  being  the  appointed  place  for 
meeting  the  rest  of  our  party. 

As  soon  as  we  arrived,  poles  were  cut,  branches  lopped, 
and  in  half  an  hour  we  sat  within  an  extemporary  court- 
house of  boughs  and  logs,  such  as  a  Kentucky  trial  was 
once  often  held  in.  The  Judge  sat  one  log  above  the  rest, 
his  rifle  on  his  knees,  and,  the  day  having  become  warm, 
stripped  to  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  jeans  hunting-jacket  for 
a  cushion.  The  justice,  as  clerk  pro  tern.,  sat  below,  with 
an  old  chair-bottom  and  a  bit  of  charcoal,  to  keep  the  rec- 
ords. The  prisoner  was  made  fast  to  the  tree  which  was 
main  prop  to  our  shanty,  by  an  ox-chain,  the  rest  of  us  lay 
at  our  ease  on  the  greensward  which  formed  our  floor. 
The  complaint  was  soon  made,  and  the  usual  question  of 
guilty  or  no,  put ;  but  deuce  of  a  word  was  forthcoming 
from  Dennis;  all  the  blood  of  old  Ireland  and  Kentuck 
united  was  boiling  in  him.  He  had  come  to  a  full  sense  of 
his  situation,  but  the  why  and  wherefore  still  seemed  to  his 
mind  a  mystery;  and  though  words  occasionally  came  to 
his  throat,  he  choked  them  down  and  sat  in  gloomy  silence. 

The  evidence  of  three  or  four  was  taken,  all  going  to 
show  that  Dennis  had  been  refused  by  Contentment ;  that 
she  'd  boxed  his  ears;  that  he  had  followed  her  out  of  the 
village  while  still  angry,  and  that  she  had  disappeared.  To 
all  this  the  Biter  said  never  a  word  ;  and  no  defence  being 


THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT.  457 

made,  the  Judge  bade  the  clerk  enter  the  crime  confessed  in 
open  court,  by  wilful  silence,  and  moved  an  adjournment ; 
bidding,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  prisoner  be  committed 
to  two  men  for  further  trial  ;  and  the  august  assembly 
broke  up. 

We  had  not  got  ten  rods  from  the  place,  when  a  cry  from 
the  extemporary  constables  brought  us  to  the  right  about. 
The  chain  had  been  taken  from  Dennis's  leg,  and,  as  he 
seemed  cowed,  his  masters  were  not  careful  of  his  hands ; 
so  that,  watching  his  chance,  he  had  broke  from  them,  and 
when  we  turned  was  in  the  act  of  seizing  a  rifle.  Another 
instant,  and  he  was  behind  a  tree.  Quick  as  thought  the 
woodsmen  all  sprang  to  cover,  and  a  skirmish  seemed  to  be 
nearing.  But,  as  it  chanced,  the  man  whose  rifle  Dennis 
had  seized  was  with  the  Judge  and  myself,  and  he  at  once 
told  us,  in  a  whisper,  that  it  was  not  loaded.  The  Judge 
pondered  a  moment,  and  then  his  mind  was  made  up ;  and, 
to  the  surprise  of  our  companions,  who  sat,  each  watching 
the  just  visible  muzzle  of  the  Biter's  gun,  the  man  of  law, 
without  rifle  and  without  coat,  —  for  he  had  only  thrown  his 
hunting-shirt  over  his  arm  when  the  trial  was  done,  —  walked 
from  his  cover  directly  up  toward  the  tree  where  stood  the 
dreaded  marksman. 

Dennis,  he  knew,  must  be  a  formidable  foe  with  a  rifle 
in  his  hand,  though  unloaded,  and  his  object  was,  of  course, 
to  wrest  it  from  him. 

We  heard  the  deep  tones  of  the  Irishman,  bidding  his  foe 
beware,  and  saw  the  barrel  fall  lower  and  lower,  till  it  was 
pointed  at  the  heart  of  the  foolhardy  assailant.  The  Judge 
walked  at  his  usual  pace,  his  head  erect,  and  his  frame 
ready  for  action,  full  toward  the  death-dealing  tube ;  he  was 
within  five  feet.  We  held  our  breath  from  fear.  We  heard 
the  rifle  cocked  ;  it  almost  touched  the  body  of  our  cham- 
pion. It  was  raised  to  the  sturdy  shoulder  of  the  prisoner, 
and  we  heard  the  trigger  pulled ;  and  then,  just  when  the 

VOL.  i.  39 


45S  THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT. 

Biter's  hold  was  insecure,  the  Judge  seized  the  barrel,  and 
we  saw  the  gun  go  whirling  into  the  air,  and  the  brawny 
Hibernian  in  the  grasp  of  him  of  the  ermine. 

Dennis  was  a  stout  fellow,  big  of  bone  and  strong  in 
muscle  ;  few  of  the  woodsmen  could  stand  before  him  in  a 
wrestling-match  ;  and  now  his  wrestling  was  for  life  and 
death.  But  he  had  met  his  equal.  For  bone  and  sinew, 
my  learned  friend  would  compare  with  any  man  ;  and  his 
was  a  spirit  of  the  cool,  determined,  unflinching  cast,  that 
won  our  Revolution,  and  made  Bunker's  height  immortal. 
Many  a  time  and  oft,  when  party  spirit  was  strong,  had  he 
gone  to  the  polls,  pistol  in  hand,  to  record  his  vote  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  popular  party  ;  many  a  time,  when  at  the  bar, 
had  he  first  out-argued  his  opponent,  and  then  thrashed  him 
in  fair  fight ;  and  this  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  since 
he  ascended  the  bench,  that  he  had  been  his  own  executive. 

Dennis  griped  hard  ;  his  teeth  were  set,  and  his  lips  were 
covered  with  foam ;  thrice  lie  lifted  his  weighty  opponent 
from  the  ground,  and  thrice  when  his  feet  touched  the  soil 
again,  he  stood  like  a  tower,  unmoved.  A  fourth  time  he 
collected  his  energies  for  the  attempt ;  but  now  the  prisoner 
found  himself,  in  his  turn,  in  mid-air  ;  one  moment  he  hung 
there,  and  then,  descending,  his  legs  failed  to  support  him, 
and  the  formidable  Biter  lay  locked  in  his  victor's  arms. 
At  that  instant  we  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs ;  nearer 
it  came,  and  nearer  ;  we  saw  through  the  trees  glimpses  of 
a  woman  riding  at  full  speed  toward  us.  The  Judge  raised 
himself,  his  knee  upon  his  foeman's  chest,  to  gaze  ;  but  the 
Irishman  lay  with  eyes  closed,  dead  in  despair.  Another 
instant,  and,  with  hair  loose  and  cheek  flushed,  the  female 
was  among  us  ;  she  sprang  from  her  steed,  cast  one  look  at 
the  prosirate  figure,  one  at  the  giant  that  bestrode  him,  and 
sunk  by  them  upon  the  earth.  Dennis  looked  up,  he  strug- 
gled, he  spoke.  She  looked  up,  too  ;  she  saw  he  was  not 
dead,  and  shrieked  for  joy.  "  O,  the  swate  crathur !  " 
murmured  Dennis. 


THE  JUDGE'S  HUNT.  459 

In  a  moment  more  came  rushing  in  another  rider,  one  of 
our  original  set.  The  matter  was  soon  explained.  Content- 
ment was  at  her  uncle's,  and,  hearing  of  Dennis's  danger, 
had  rushed  to  the  rescue.  The  eyes  of  the  blind  were 
opened ;  Dennis  forswore  whiskey,  shook  hands  with  the 
Judge,  felt  of  him  from  top  to  toe,  cut  a  caper  as  high  as  his 
head,  and  went  his  way  rejoicing. 

***** 

I  rode  the  circuit  again  the  next  year.  Dennis  had  re- 
mained faithful  to  temperance  and  Contentment,  and  waited 
but  our  arrival  to  take  to  himself  a  wife.  It  was  a  mild 
autumnal  evening,  the  close  of  an  Indian-summer  day,  and 
the  atmosphere  wore  the  rich,  calm,  slumberous  hue  pe- 
culiar to  the  season.  The  bridal  party,  consisting  of  the 
whole  village,  came  out  to  meet  us,  and  the  caper-cuttings 
which  some  of  the  young  ones  indulged  in  were  a  caution. 
Dennis  himself  looked  grave,  and  kept  order,  but  finally 
dashed  off  into  more  capers  than  any  of  them. 

On  the  brow  of  the  hill  we  found  a  Kentuck  entertain- 
ment,—  ham,  hoe-cake,  dodgers,  honey,  milk,  and,  at  the  far 
end  from  the  bridegroom,  a  small  allowance  of  the  "  cra- 
thur."  They  danced,  they  sung,  they  roared,  they  wrestled, 
they  romped  ;  and  the  old  justice  of  peace  had  no  little  dif- 
ficulty in  restoring  peace,  that  the  company  might  drink  "  a 
roast  or  toast,  or  whatever  the  name  was,"  which  Dennis 
had  been  mustering  courage  to  propose.  At  length  out  it 
bolted,  and  you  may  be  sure  the  forest  rang  with  our  re- 
sponse. "  Our  respectable  guest,"  said  the  happy  O'Shaugh- 
nessy,  "  the  only  man  that  iver  squazed  the  Sponge,  and  he 
squazed  it  dry." 


THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER. 


As  we  climbed  the  steep  and  slippery  hill-side,  scrambling 
through  the  dry  runs,  over  rocks,  and  into  hollows,  —  now 
bruising  our  shins  against  some  stump  which  had  fallen  from 
the  bank,  and  lay  hid  under  the  snow,  and  now  slumping 
knee-deep  into  some  standing  pool,  thickened  to  a  mush-like 
consistency  by  the  feathery  shower,  —  my  heart  misgave 
me.  Soaked,  bruised,  shivering,  rny  clothes  torn,  and  my 
rifle  an  encumbrance  rather  than  a  help,  I  wished  Job  Strong 
and  his  whole  race  where  1  knew  he  deserved  to  be.  Nor 
was  it  any  better  when  we  clambered  from  the  waterless 
brook,  and  put  out  into  a  half-cleared  spot,  where  countless 
unseen  logs  served  as  traps  to  the  unwary.  Even  the  Judge's 
stalwart  form  bent  low  against  the  tempest ;  and  as  the  dark- 
ness grew  upon  the  face  of  things,  I  shuddered  lest  we  should 
lose  our  path  in  this  truly  howling  wilderness,  and  become 
as  motionless,  ere  morning,  as  the  ghastly  and  skinless 
trunks  that  stood  around  us.  At  times,  as  the  wind  lulled, 
we  heard  what  might  be  the  cry  of  the  wolf  or  panther,  and 
the  moaning  of  the  forest  all  about  us  was  horrrble  to  me  ;  — 
it  was  almost  like  walking  through  a  field  of  the  dying. 

At  length,  in  one  of  the  hollows,  the  Judge  halted,  shook 
the  snow  from  his  bear-skin  cap,  and  looked  keenly  to  the 
state  of  his  rifle-lock.  "  I  reckon  it  can't  no  how  be  more 
than  a  mile  now,"  said  he. 


THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER.  461 

I  could  scarce  find  blood  and  breath  enough  to  ask,  in 
reply,  when  he  trod  that  path  last  ? 

"  Never  before  this  night  did  I  see  the  first  stone  of  it," 
answered  the  Judge,  "  and  if  I  'd  known  how  powerful 
rough  it  was,  I  'd  been  mighty  cautious  how  I  took  the  trail. 
But  there  's  no  backing  out  now,  so,  up  the  hill  and  ahead, 
boy  "  ;  —  and  with  the  but  of  his  gun  he  heaved  his  huge 
frame  forward  again. 

Despair  now  and  then  lends  a  novel-hero  wings.  On  the 
present  occasion  it  lent  me  legs,  —  and  I  managed  to  stride 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  my  guide,  stopping  occasionally 
to  pick  myself  up.  For  a  time  I  tugged  on  with  set  teeth, 
and  straining  sinews.  I  knew  that  if  I  opened  my  rnouth  old 
Boreas  would  cram  my  words  down  my  throat  again,  and 
was  mum.  But  at  length  we  took  up  a  hollow,  where,  being 
no  longer  obliged  to  hold  our  ears  lest  a  sudden  snap  should 
sweep  them  off,  the  floodgates  of  my  impatience  gave  way. 

"  And  who,"  I  cried,  "  is  this  throat-cutter,  Job  Strong  ?  " 

"  A  damned  Yankee,"  growled  the  Judge. 

"  And  how  long  of  Kentuck  ?  and  what  's  his  calling  ? 
and  in  what  part  of  Yankee-land  was  he  raised  ?  and 
what  " 

"  Hold  on,"  shouted  he,  turning  on  me,  "  don't  try  for 
all,  or  you  '11  get  none.  Job  's  a  Green  Mountain  boy  ;  he 
come  to  the  West,  and  fought  the  Indians  before  our  time  a 
mighty  long  while  ;  but  he  's  quick  as  a  flash,  and  given  to 
whiskey.  When  he  's  drunk  he  's  right  mad,  and  when 
he  's  mad  he  kills  ;  he  's  dangerous  you  may  depend. 
For  his  wife,  she  's  an  old  psalm-singing  Connecticut  Yan- 
kee, that  aint  worth  the  logs  that  cover  her.  As  for  Tem- 
perance, the  child,  there  aint  such  a  one  to  be  seen  nowhere 
hereabout  but  she.  My  Esther  aint  a  priming  to  her.  She 
loves  the  old  man  sweetly  ;  and  I  've  seen  her,  I  disrcmem- 
ber  how  often,  keep  him  from  mischief.  She  's  done  her 
do  to  fix  him  right  any  how  ;  but  't  wont  stay  fixed  ;  he  's 
39* 


462  THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER. 

drunk  and  elbow-deep  in  blood,  and  must  hang,  there  's  no 
two  ways  about  it."  And,  with  that  comforting  remark,  the 
Judge  nestled  into  the  fringe  of  his  hunting-frock,  and  we 
again  set  our  faces  to  the  blast. 

We  were  now  moving  along  the  ridge  of  a  hill  over  which 
the  wind  swept  unbroken.  It  had  long  been  cleared,  and, 
except  where  a  stump  offered  to  the  snow  a  hiding-[  lace,  it 
was  unable  to  make  any  stand  against  its  pursuer,  and  we 
trod  upon  the  bare,  crisp  grass  with  a  strange  feeling  of  ease 
and  relief.  Presently,  afar  off  we  spied  a  light.  "There," 
said  the  Judge,  pointing  to  it,  —  "there  I  reckon  we  have 
the  old  woman's  hut ;  and  there  we  may  catch  the  cutthroat 
in  the  chimney-corner." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  arrest  him  ;  " 

"  If  I  can." 

"  Well,  do  you  hope  to  ?  " 

"  It  's  pretty  mixed  whether  I  do  or  not,"  said  the  Judge  ; 
"  but  I  've  played  sheriff  mighty  often,  and  never  was  the 
rogue  yet  raised  that  I  could  n't  lay  hold  on,  and  holo  on  to, 
when  1  was  so  minded.  And  now,  if  you  '11  stand  by  and 
shoot  him,  should  he  run,  I  '11  lay  mine  to  a  coon's  skin  that 
he  do  n't  live  to  see  daylight  a  free  man." 

The  hut  was  a  common,  low  log  hut  ;  it  stood  just  at  the 
end  of  the  ridge,  and  the  ground  all  about  it  had  been  cleared 
and  cultivated.  The  Judge  placed  me  behind  one  of  the 
out-buildings,  through  which  came  an  agreeable  warmth  and 
scent,  from  sundry  porkers  who  had  found  shelter  there  from 
the  storm;  while  he  went  himself  to  reconnoitre.  The  light 
that  shone  through  the  single  pane  of  glass  spoke  of  a  roar- 
ing and  dancing  fire  within  ;  to  this  simple  window  the 
man  of  law  addressed  himself.  For  a  moment  his  big  head 
hid  the  light  from  me,  and  then  it  shone  clear  again,  and  I 
sunk  into  my  warm  corner.  "  lie  's  not  here,  after  all,"  said 
the  Judge,  bitterly,  as  he  strode  up  to  me  again  ;  "  but  we  '11 
go  in,  and  see  if  we  can  suck  any  thing  from  the  old  worn- 


THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER.  463 

an."  So,  at  his  bidding,  I  followed  to  the  door.  He 
knocked.  "  Who  's  there  ?  "  said  a  female.  He  gave  his 
name,  and  the  simple  latch  was  lifted. 

In  one  corner  of  the  rough  room  stood  the  bed,  covered 
with  a  patchwork  comfortable  ;  along  the  end  opposite 
the  door  was  a  row  of  plates,  cups,  saucers,  milk-pans,  and 
pots  ;  an  old-fashioned  brass-mounted  sword  hung  along  a 
log,  just  above  a  single  shelf  of  well-worn  books  ;  over  the 
large  stone  chimney-place  were  two  or  three  rough  engrav- 
ings of  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  the  Prodigal  Son,  &c.  ;  while 
the  two  solitary  women  that  abode  in  this  deserted  spot  sat 
upon  a  pair  of  rough  stools  over  a  rougher  table,  before  the 
well-heaped  fire.  The  floor  was  of  flat  stones  throughout, 
with  a  scrap  of  carpeting  by  the  bedside.  Upon  a  pile  of 
logs  near  the  fire  lay  a  clean  and  civilized-looking  pussy, 
black  nnd  white. 

The  mother  was,  to  the  eye,  a  hag.  Her  gray  locks,  her 
bloodless  and  wrinkled  face,  her  bent  form,  and  the  almost 
maniac  fire  of  her  eye,  were  startling;  but  her  voice  was 
low  and  sweet,  and  as,  with  her  spectacles  thrown  up  upon 
her  high  forehead,  and  her  skinny  hand  pressed  firmly  down 
upon  the  open  Bible,  from  which  she  was  reading  by  the 
light  of  a  pine-torch  stuck  into  a  crevice  in  the  table,  I 
could  have  fancied  her  first  cousin  to  Hecate.  "  And  what 
want  ye  here  ?"  she  said,  and  my  rough  comrade,  despite 
his  contempt  for  her,  doffed  his  cap  unawares.  "  Why 
come  ye  here  when  the  Lord  of  the  storms  is  walking  abroad, 
and  wishes  to  be  alone  in  the  wilderness  ?  " 

"Stay,  mother,"  said  the  maiden,  "I  know  the  man  "; 
and,  drawing  a  bench  from  the  shadow  beyond  the  chimney, 
she,  in  a  silent  manner,  asked  us  to  sit  down. 

Although  the  Judge  had  praised  Miss  Temperance,  her 
looks  were  not  bewitching.  She  was  tall,  raw-boned,  and 
hard-featured.  Her  black  eye  and  brow  bespoke  character, 
and  her  cool  and  measured  step  and  speech,  self-command. 


464  THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER. 

The  self-made  sheriff  felt  awkwardly  for  an  instant,  and 
fingered  his  rifle-stock  unmeaningly  ;  when  hoth  of  us 
were  startled  by  the  voice  —  quiet,  and  calm,  and  musical 
—  of  the  mother.  "  Let  us  pray,"  she  said,  and  she  bent 
her  stiff  knees  to  the  stones.  1  expected  a  wild  rhapsody  of 
unmeaning  quotations  from  Scripture,  and  senseless  excla- 
mations;  but  I  heard,  instead,  a  prayer  which  rung  in  my 
ears  for  months  afterward,  and  made  every  nerve  quiver. 
She  prayed  for  her  husband, —  for  the  father  of  the  pure 
maid  beside  her  ;  she  prayed  for  the  man  of  riot,  blasphemy, 
and  blood  ;  she  prayed  for  him  whose  pursuers,  whose 
judges,  whose  executioners,  it  might  be,  were  even  then 
kneeling  by  her  hearth-stone.  "  They  will  bring  shame 
upon  us,"  she  said,  in  that  low,  deep,  burning  tone,  which 
was  heard  above  all  the  shouts  of  the  air-demons.  "  They 
will  bring  down  my  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave, 
and  embitter  the  dregs  of  a  drained  cup.  But  ours,  not 
theirs,  is  the  fault,  and  ours  be  the  woe  and  the  wailing." 
The  Judge  even  could  not  withstand  the  simple,  sincere, 
deep  petition  of  her  whose  husband's  life  he  was  seeking, 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  tears  gathered  in  his 
eye. 

After  the  prayer  that  we  had  heard,  it  was  needless  to  ex- 
plain our  visit,  and  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  ask  where 
he  might  be  found.  In  silence  victuals  were  set  before  us, 
and  we  ate.  The  daughter  also  placed  upon  the  table  a  bot- 
tle of  spirits.  I  do  not  know  if  we  should  either  of  us  have 
touched  it,  but  before  we  had  time  to  do  so,  the  mother  rose, 
and  taking  it,  opened  the  door  and  cast  it,  without  a  word, 
out  into  the  tempest. 

We  now  prepared  to  go  again,  and  for  myself  I  must  say 
willingly,  much  as  1  dreaded  the  tramp.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  old  woman's  bright,  still  eye,  and  in  the  calm, 
queen-like  strength  of  the  daughter,  which  awed  and 
troubled  me.  Seeing  us  about  to  depart,  the  aged  mourner 


THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER.  465 

opened  her  Bible,  and  unbidden  read  aloud.  It  was  from 
the  tenth  chapter  of  Job.  "  My  soul  is  weary  of  my  life  ;  I 
will  leave  rny  complaint  upon  myse  f ;  I  will  speak  in  the 
bitterness  of  my  soul."  It  was  fearful  to  behold  her  ;  not 
a  fibre  of  her  frame  but  shook,  and  her  tearless  eyeballs 
burned  like  fire.  With  a  power  that  seemed  not  native  to 
so  worn  a  frame  and  broken  a  spirit,  she  poured  forth  the 
closing  petition.  "  Are  not  my  days  few  ?  Cease,  then,  and 
let  me  alone,  that  I  may  take  comfort  a  little,  before  I  go 
whence  I  shall  not  return,  even  to  the  land  of  darkness  and 
the  shadow  of  death  ;  a  land  of  darkness,  as  darkness  itself ; 
and  of  the  shadow  of  death,  without  any  order,  and  where 
the  light  is  as  darkness."  And  her  head  sank  upon  the 
Holy  Book. 

We  rose,  and  in  silence  left  the  hut ;  but  we  left  it  not 
alone.  Temperance  threw  her  cloak  over  her,  and  said  she 
wished  to  return  to  the  village,  and  would,  if  we  pleased,  go 
with  us.  And  again  we  walked  in  the  storm,  though  I  felt 
it  not,  and  heard  it  not.  The  backwoodsman  went  before 
us,  to  see  that  all  was  safe  and  clear,  while  the  maiden  leant 
upon  me,  giving  rather  than  receiving  support,  however. 

Safely,  but  slowly,  we  retrod  our  path,  and  had  now 
reached  the  last  hill-top,  when  we  all  saw  before  us  a  man, 
his  dark  form  set  out  by  the  snow.  The  Judge  hailed,  but 
the  figure  was  gone.  Our  way  lay  down  the  slanting  and 
bare  ridge,  upon  either  side  of  which  was  a  hollow,  more  or 
less  filled  with  papavv  and  other  bushes,  among  which  a 
thousand  men  might  have  lain  hid.  I  felt  the  grasp  of  my 
companion  tighter  upon  my  arm,  until  it  was  very  painful  ; 
and,  thinking  her  alarmed,  I  said  that  we  had  nothing  to  fear. 
She  made  no  reply,  but  I  saw  a  look  pass  over  her  face 
which  then  I  did  not  understand.  The  Judge  had  dropped 
back  to  join  us,  and  was  looking  keenly  for  tracks,  when  the 
crack  of  a  rifle  close  beside  us  made  my  heart  jump,  and  the 
poor  girl  by  my  side  trembled  like  a  leaf  of  autumn.  It  was 


466  THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER. 

an  instant  only,  and  the  rifle  of  the  Judge  was  levelled  ;  for 
his  eye  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  foe,  and  the  report,  and 
the  death-cry  of  the  victim,  were,  and  were  gone,  hefore  I 
could  think.  With  the  caution  of  an  old  hand,  the  Judge 
stopped  to  reload,  but  while  the  sharp  yell  of  agony  was  yet 
ringing  in  my  ear,  Temperance  sprang  toward  the  bushes. 
I  seized  her  cloak  and  besought  her  to  stay.  She  left  it  in 
my  hands  and  plunged  down  the  descent.  As  quick  as  might 
be  I  was  after  her,  but  for  a  moment  was  lost  among  the 
undergrowth  ;  then,  as  I  burst  from  the  thicket,  I  saw  her 
supporting  a  dark  form  which  I  knew  must  be  his  who  had 
tried  to  take  our  lives.  She  was  bending  over  the  dim-seen 
face,  in  which  there  was  no  sign  of  life.  The  eye  was  open, 
but  upturned  and  red  ;  the  mouth,  too,  was  open,  but  no 
breath  came  from  it  ;  a  battle  quivering  of  the  limbs  was  all 
that  bespoke  any  remains  of  life. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  said  I. 

She  looked  up  at  me  with  a  countenance  which,  in  the 
dim  light,  was  calm  and  placid  ;  and  if  it  seemed  ashy  pale, 
it  might  be  but  the  light  of  the  snow. 

"  It  is  my  father,"  she  said. 

When  the  Judge  joined  us,  he  saw  at  a  glance  whose  life 
he  had  taken,  and  while  a  curse  upon  Job  Strong's  malice 
rose  to  his  lips,  he  could  not  but  feel  for  his  child. 

"  Is  it  all  over,  gal  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  let  me  hold  him  awhile, 
you  're  too  much  fluttered."  She  said  nothing,  but,  placing 
her  finger  upon  her  wrist,  held  it  towards  him  ;  it  was  an 
action  full  of  meaning,  and  the  woodsman  felt  it.  "  May 
God  have  mercy  upon  his  soul  ! "  was  his  simple  reply  to 
her  gesture  ;  but  it  went  to  her  heart,  and  she  bent  upon  the 
yet  warm  hod  .  <  f  her  parent,  and  mourned  as  do  those  who 
mourn  but  seldom. 

We  hastened  fur  help  to  the  village,  and  then  bore  the 
corpse  to  the  hut,  where  Strong  had  lurked. 

The  next  day,  I  went  alone  to  the  house  where  we  had 


THE  MUEDEEEB'S  DAUGHTER.  467 

left  Temperance,  and  where  she  had  long  lived  with  him 
whose  death  I  had  witnessed.  She  was  busily  engaged  in 
packing  up  the  few  utensils  she  possessed,  to  have  them 
taken  to  her  mother's  hut.  Her  manner  was  as  calm  as 
ever,  though  her  face  was  swollen  and  distorted.  She  hade 
me  welcome  kindly  ;  wiped  a  seat  by  the  fire,  and  asked 
me  if  I  would  eat.  She  spoke  of  the  funeral,  which  was  to 
take  place  toward  evening ;  of  the  kindness  that  had  been 
shown  her  by  those  near  by  ;  and  then  insensibly  turned  to 
the  character  of  him  that  was  gone.  "  They  tell'd  me," 
said  she,  "  not  to  cry  for  him,  because  he  was  a  bad  man  ; 
and  he  was  powerful  bad,  to  be  sure.  But  God  gave  him  to 
me  to  be  my  father,  Sir,  and  God  made  me  love  him  like 
life.  He  was  hard  to  some,  Sir,  but  here  was  as  good  as  a 
child  ;  he  raised  me  kindly,  and  never  was  the  first  blow 
struck,  or  oath  uttered,  within  that  door.  They  tell'd  me  I 
should  n't  love  him,  aud  could  n't  think  no  how  I  did  ;  but 
the  cub  of  the  wolf  never  asks  whether  its  mother  be  good, 
Sir,  and  why  should  I  ?  He  was  my  father,  bad  as  he  was, 
and  God,  Sir,  made  me  love  him  ;  and  now,  only  but  for  her 
sake,  I  could  wish  I  was  dead  with  him." 

I  did  not  attempt  to  comfort  her,  or  stop  the  truly  instinc- 
tive grief  to  which  she  gave  way  ;  but  I  spoke  of  the  world 
beyond  death,  and  of  the  hopes  that  all  had  of  forgiveness. 
She  sat,  her  arm  upon  the  window-sill,  looking  up,  as  if  for 
hope,  into  the  broken  snow-clouds  that  were  drifting  cheer- 
lessly from  the  northwest  ;  her  eye  was  moist,  but  bright, 
and  her  lip  trembled  with  a  feeling  short  of  despair.  "  And 
is  there,"  said  she,  without  turning,  "  a  right  good  chance 
for  them  that  sin  ?  " 

"  The  mercy  of  our  Father,"  I  replied,  "  is  boundless." 

"  But  if  I  was  there,"  she  continued,  still  looking  up  into 
the  sky,  "  I  reckon  I  could  help  him,  might  n't  I  ?  " 

"  Every  tear  you  shed,  every  prayer  you  breathe,  helps 
him,"  I  answered,  "  and  gives  you  hope." 


468  THE  MURDERER'S  DAUGHTER. 

She  drew  her  coarse  sleeve  across  her  face,  and  came 
and  knelt  at  my  feet  and  prayed. 

Toward  night  the  little  company  that  cared  to  follow,  in 
the  cold  wind,  a  murderer  to  his  grave,  met  at  the  log  inn. 
Temperance,  clad  in  such  weeds  as  she  chanced  to  have, 
walked  as  sole  mourner.  She  was  supported  by  him  whose 
hand  had  taken  the  life  of  the  dead  before  us.  We  walked 
in  silence  to  the  grave,  and  in  silence  the  rude  coffin  was 
placed  in  the  cold  earth  ;  the  Judge  read  a  simple  service, 
and  the  frozen  clod  fell  upon  the  board.  The  daughter  stood 
calm  and  motionless  at  the  head  of  the  grave,  until  all  was 
done  ;  she  then  came  forward,  and  taking  the  Judge's  hand, 
"  Till  this  moment,"  she  said,  "  I  never  thought  to  thank 
God  that  he  had  been  saved  from  the  fate  of  the  murderer." 
She  then  turned  to  the  rest  of  us,  and  tried  to  speak,  but  her 
breath  choked.  Half  a  dozen  voices  at  once  offered  her  all 
they  could  give.  I  caught  with  difficulty  her  reply  ;  she 
asked  only  their  forgiveness  and  prayers  for  him.  We  left 
her  alone  with  her  Maker. 

Some  hours  after  dark,  the  Judge  and  myself  had  occasion 
to  pass  the  graveyard.  The  wind  was  high,  and  the  snow 
drifting  ;  the  clouds  at  times  hid  all,  and  at  times  the  moon 
looked  out  through  the  frosty  air.  We  stopped  a  moment  to 
look  at  the  grave  round  which  we  had  stood.  "  The  snow 
will  not  lodge  on  it,"  said  my  comrade  ;  and  he  pointed  to 
the  dark  spot  on  the  field  of  white.  I  looked,  and  thought  I 
saw  the  object  move.  We  got  over  the  fence  and  went  to- 
ward it ;  it  was  some  sort  of  garment.  I  took  hold  to  move 
it,  and  found  it  held  down.  I  thought  at  first  it  was  the 
snow,  which  covered  a  great  part  of  it ;  but  the  Judge  guessed 
more  rightly,  and,  stooping  down,  he  grasped  and  raised  the 
stiff  and  lifeless  body  of  Temperance  Strong. 


THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS. 


I. 

COME  with  me.  Look  at  that  cottage.  Mark  the  rosy 
children  ;  the  observant  pigs,  watchful  for  stray  morsels 
of  bread  and  apple-peelings ;  the  dirty,  noisy,  gabbling, 
companionable,  gossiping  ducks;  the  sleepy  dog,  with  his 
eyes  wide  awake  ;  the  all-sweeping,  all-scolding,  all-spank- 
ing mother.  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  scene,  —  worthy  of  the 
Miami  valley  ?  See  that  young  good-for-nothing,  who  has 
clambered  over  the  garden  fence,  and  is  busy  looking  in  the 
grass  for  apples;  how  plump  and  solid!  a  New-Zealander 
would  keep  him  for  an  Australasian  Fourth  of  July.  The 
rogue  deserves  to  be  whipped  ;  he  's  stealing  the  russets 
from  the  tree.  But  what  does  he  do  with  them  ?  They  are 
all  quietly  made  over,  under  cover  of  the  tall  iron  weeds,  to 
the  thin,  pale  girl,  five  years  older  than  himself,  whose  flesh 
has  been  shaken  off  by  the  ague-demons  which  haunt  these 
same  luxuriant  valleys.  But,  while  we  are  musing  over  the 
great  problem  of  rich  lands  and  bilious  dwellers,  the  pale, 
diffident  girl,  knowing  how  little  beauty  she  has,  —  for  her 
wavy  looking-glass  tells  her  the  worst  as  to  that,  —  and  not 
knowing  what  a  well  of  inner,  of  soul  beauty,  of  soul-taking 
beauty,  springs  up  in  her  dark  eyes  when  the  magic  of  kind 
acts  opens  them,  —  the  awkward,  bashful  girl,  we  beg  you  to 
notice,  has  stumbled  backwards.  Against  what  ?  As  I  live, 

VOL.  i.  40 


470  THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS. 

it 's  a  bee-hive  !  She  '11  be  stung  to  death  !  What  can  be 
done  ?  We  are  so  far  off;  and  the  children  run  ;  the 
sleepy  dog  wakes  and  runs ;  the  pigs  run  faster  than  any ; 
the  all-sweeping  mother  has  gone  in  doors ;  and  round  her 
bowed,  devoted  head,  as  though  all  the  wealth  of  Hymettus 
or  a  sugar-hogshead  centred  there,  the  roused  legions  of  the 
insect  Victoria  sound  their  gathering-cry.  She,  poor  scared 
creature,  bows  submissive,  —  never  lifts  a  hand  in  self- 
defence  ;  both  hands,  indeed,  are  busy  holding  up  her  apron 
full  of  apples.  "  Better  be  stung,"  (so  says  inarticulate  af- 
fection,) "  than  throw  away  Ned's  gift";  —  which,  by  the 
way,  Ned  will  certainly  be  spanked  for  giving.  Meanwhile 
young  scapegrace  himself  runs.  "  Shame  on  him  ! "  do 
you  say  ?  Ask  first  why  he  ran.  Napoleon  might  have 
run  at  the  right  time.  He  runs  for  help.  Good.  "  But 
still,"  you  say,  "  he  should  have  helped  his  sweetheart 
himself."  Very  true.  Notice  now  what  he  does.  At  ten 
steps  off  stand  empty  flour-barrels,  waiting  the  advent  of 
those  very  apples  Ned  has  been  stealing.  Quick  as  a  hawk 
on  a  chicken,  Ned  pounces  on  one  ;  staggering,  he  shoul- 
ders it,  grasping  simultaneously  a  handful  of  the  straw 
which  lies  ready  to  embrace  the  coy  russets.  Ellen,  paler 
than  ever,  calm  as  only  a  sick  child  can  be,  stands  with 
bowed  head,  holding  her  apron  full  of  apples.  Only  an  in- 
stant has  elapsed  since  the  hive  was  upset,  long  as  it  takes 
to  write  and  read  about  it ;  the  bees  still  dance  their  war- 
dance  with  uplifted  tomahawks,  when,  like  a  new  Achilles, 
Ned,  barrel  on  shoulder,  wisp  in  hand,  rushes  in,  scatters  the 
myriads  for  a  moment  with  his  straw  sword,  and  plumps  the 
barrel  over  the  astounded  Ellen,  who  comes  to  her  knees, 
losing  all  her  russets.  "  Stay  still,"  says  Ned,  "  one  min- 
ute"; and  before  the  defrauded  honey-hoarders  know  what's 
what,  or  who  's  who,  he  's  into  the  house,  and  out  again, 
with  a  bunch  of  matches,  and  Ellen,  half-choked  with  grat- 
itude and  brimstone,  is  trying  to  cough  out  her  thanks  in  the 
back-kitchen. 


THE    KINDNESS   THAT   KILLS.  471 

II. 

Look  again  !  A  little  boy,  about  Ned's  age,  sits  knock- 
ing his  heels  upon  the  counter  of  a  country  store.  His 
father  and  grandfather,  good,  sensible,  steady,  rising  people, 
measure  out  calico  and  cloth  to  the  clodhoppers  who  swarm 
in,  this  fine  fall  afternoon.  Women,  with  children  and  with- 
out, come  and  go ;  jean-coats  enter  and  exeunt ;  the  flies  buzz 
with  the  prosy  tone  of  autumnal  old  age  ;  and  Bob  kicks  his 
heels.  "  My  boy,"  says  the  grandfather,  who  has  nerves, 
"  please  stop  your  noise."  "  I  won't,"  says  Bob.  "  Rob- 
ert, my  son  !  "  emphasizes  the  immediate  parent.  Bob 
kicks  on.  The  young  democracy  conquers.  "  Bob,"  pleads 
the  nerve-torturing  grandsire,  "  here  's  a  fip  ;  save  it ;  save 
all  your  ftps,  and  you  '11  be  rich."  Bob  understands  the 
bribe  indirect  as  well  as  the  bribe  direct,  and  gives  his  an- 
cestor a  wink  that  implies,  "  Old  fellow,  make  the  young 
one  pay  up  too,  and  I  '11  quit,"  and  kicks  on.  "  Robert," 
says  the  defaulter  after  a  moment,  "  if  I  give  you  a  fip  will 
you  go  home  to  mamma  ?  "  "  Just  you  try,"  answers  Bob, 
with  watering  mouth.  The  experiment  is  tried,  and  suc- 
ceeds ;  but,  as  the  youth  hears  frequently  the  moral  lesson 
that  "  we  must  gather  as  we  go,"  he  reaches  home  with 
such  an  accumulation  of  candy  on  his  face  and  feelers,  that 
it  is  well  Mrs.  Pond's  unhoused  bees  are  not  by  at  the  time, 
or  they  would  surely  suck  him  up  by  mistake. 

III. 

Turn  the  kaleidoscope.  Moonlight  falls  through  the 
trees  ;  silent,  silvery  mists,  full  of  beauty  and  poison,  steal 
inch  by  inch  from  the  river.  Are  these  twain,  walking 
here  now  that  the  drops  gather  on  the  leaves,  strangers  to 
Ohio  ?  No,  they  are  Buckeyes.  Then  they  are  either 
crazy,  or  charmed,  or  full  of  the  magic  might  of  calomel. 
Neither :  they  are  merely  lovers,  and  think  and  care  not  for 


472  THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS. 

mists,  man,  misery,  ague,  or  any  thing.  It  is  strange,  too  ! 
for  the  girl  looks  hollow-cheeked  in  the  moonbeams,  and  her 
shawl  is  thin,  and  her  shoes  nothing  but  slippers.  And  now 
that  we  see  her  face,  is  it  not  Ellen  ?  she  that  was  saved  by 
the  flour-barrel  ?  And  Ned,  too !  the  rosy  apple-stealer, 
rosy  and  plump  as  ever.  Hold  your  breath,  and  listen  to 
them  for  a  moment. 

"  Mother  must  have  the  old  place,"  says  Ned ;  "  come 
what  will  to  us,  Nelly,  she  must  have  that."  This  his  voice 
roundly  asserts,  but  his  arm  somehow  makes  a  note  of  in- 
terrogation on  Ellen's  side ;  and  she  answers  with  a  pres- 
sure that  hardly  roughens  the  wing  of  the  moth  that  has 
just  flown  between  them,  and  yet  opens  to  him  her  whole 
soul,  as  the  star  which  is  but  a  point  to  the  most  powerful 
telescope  seems  often  to  reveal  to  us  the  soul  of  the  Infinite. 
"  And  if  she  has  the  place,"  continues  Ned,  "  and  the  girls 
have  the  money  that  father  left  us  in  bank,  and  if  we  are 
to  be  married,  Nelly,  I  must  take  Bob  Strong's  offer, 
must  n't  I  ?  " 

What  thoughts  go  on  under  that  close-drawn  bonnet ! 
How  she  tries  to  solve  the  problem,  "  Ought  I  not  to  refuse 
to  be  married,  if  it  's  to  drive  him  to  town,  to  a  store,  to 
drudgery,  to  sickness,  and  perhaps  to  death  ?  "  And  as  she 
imagines  all  her  hopes,  and  wishes,  and  plans,  and  fears, 
and  thoughts  at  an  end,  she  shrinks  so  close  to  him  that,  in 
the  ghostly  moonlight,  under  the  dripping  trees,  she  seems 
to  vanish  ;  as  well  she  might,  for  what  is  she,  poor  orphan, 
but  hopes,  and  wishes,  and  fears,  and  thoughts?  Yes,  she 
is  something  else  ;  for  the  soul  of  her  soul  is  Faith,  and 
more  mighty  within  her  than  fear  or  hope,  wishes  or  plans, 
is  the  power  of  Prayer  :  and  as  she  rises  to  the  only  sure 
Helper,  she  becomes  conscious  that  her  union  on  earth 
with  him  she  loves  so  deeply  is  not  the  one  thing  nqedful, 
and  so  turns  to  the  problem  again  with  new  eyes,  and  new 
powers  of  solution. 


THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS.  473 

"  Perhaps,  Ned,"  she  says  very  firmly,  but  very  faintly, 
"  perhaps  we  had  better  not  be  married  quite  yet."  Ned 
drops  her  arm,  steps  back  alarmed,  he  does  not  understand 
her.  How  should  he,  great  strong  boy,  understand  her, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  one  of  suffering,  struggle,  sacri- 
fice !  The  deep  bonnet  is  turned  down,  he  cannot  see  her 
face,  but  he  hears  her  beating  heart ;  she  magnetically  feels 
his  heart  answer  throb  for  throb ;  she  lifts  her  face,  the 
moon  steals  silently  in,  and  he  sees  her  dark  eyes  smiling 
through  tears ;  he  takes  her  arm  again,  and  the  dialogue 
ends.  Without  a  word  the  whole  affair  is  settled,  they  are 
to  be  married  next  week,  and  he  is  to  see  Bob  Strong  to- 
morrow. 

IV. 

Here  sits  Bob,  —  no  longer  a  candy-clothed  urchin,  but 
the  buck  and  the  millionnaire  of  the  village.  The  old  grand- 
father, worn  out  with  half  a  century  of  calico-selling  and 
cent-saving,  has  passed  beyond  the  reach  of  the  kicks  and 
coppers  of  this  world,  leaving  to  Bob's  father  countless 
acres,  and  cords  of  promissory  notes,  not  all  capable  of  dis- 
count, however.  Bob  the  elder,  who  has  become  a  con- 
vert to  Methodism,  and  withal  somewhat  superannuated, 
though  still  but  sixty,  does  little  business  now-a-days,  looks 
after  the  spiritual  welfare  of  his  neighbours,  and  leaves  the 
store  and  the  till  to  the  easy,  lazy,  cigar-loving,  good-na- 
tured, kindly  counter-kicker.  Bob  is  a  business  man  now, 
but  he  wants  a  partner  to  do  the  business ;  and  knowing  the 
poverty,  the  love,  the  engagement,  the  doubts  of  his  old 
schoolmate,  Ned  Pond,  and  touched  by  the  homely  beauty 
of  Ellen,  out  of  pure  kindness  he  has  offered  Ned  a  place 
at  the  counter,  a  share  in  the  profits,  a  chance  to  make  his 
way  in  the  world ;  taking  all  the  risk  and  trouble  of  having 
a  partner  that  has  never  even  lived  in  a  town,  much  less 
wielded  a  yard-stick.  However,  Ned  was  always  good  at 
40* 


474  THE    KINDNESS    THAT   KILLS. 

figures,  and  can  keep  the  accounts  and  write  the  letters. 
So  Bob,  in  his  kindly-selfish  fashion,  like  the  warm-hearted, 
thoughtless,  spoiled  child  that  he  is,  amiable  and  generous 
while  he  has  his  own  way,  but  ready  to  slay  and  roast  who- 
ever thwarts  him,  has  come  down  to  the  store  to  settle  mat- 
ters finally  with  Ned,  his  new  colaborer.  Like  all  thought- 
less men  who  are  generous  from  impulse,  and  from  impulse 
alone,  Bob's  intentions  are  liable  to  sudden  changes.  He 
has  just  heard  that  a  certain  hundred-dollar  note,  upon 
which  he  relied  for  cash  to  pay  for  his  new  horses,  is  not 
likely  to  be  met  at  maturity,  and  the  brimming  well  of  kind- 
ness in  his  heart  somehow  ebbs  at  the  information.  His 
father,  moreover,  who  does  not  think  much  of  Mrs.  Pond, 
with  her  quiet,  Connecticut,  congregational  ways,  has  just 
been  pointing  out  to  him  the  disadvantages  of  his  proposed 
arrangement,  and  has  succeeded  in  awakening  a  certain 
habitual  love  of  money-making  and  money-saving  caught 
from  the  old  grandfather,  whose  Poor-Richard  proverbs 
were  the  reading  and  writing  lessons,  the  morning  and 
evening  prayers,  the  Sunday  psalms,  and  constant  torment 
of  Bob's  boyhood,  which  habitual  love  of  money  underlies 
all  the  youth's  lavishness  and  beneficence.  And  so  he  sits 
here,  his  cigar  defunct  and  retained  in  his  mouth  only  as 
something  to  bite  at,  his  mind  running  on  unpaid  notes,  bor- 
rowed money,  his  comparative  poverty,  the  necessity  of 
saving,  the  utter  want  of  any  claim  on  the  part  of  Ned,  the 
kindness  he  does  him  in  taking  him  into  his  store,  the  folly 
of  being  too  generous,  &c.,  &c.  Presently  Ned  enters  ; 
flushed,  panting,  dusty,  but  brisk  and  bright  as  the  squirrels, 
whose  society  he  is  going  to  leave  for  the  living  death  of  a 
country  village.  The  young  merchant  catches  the  healthy 
tone  of  the  farm-boy,  and  the  old  grandfather's  ghost,  which 
was  strong  upon  him,  creeps  under  the  counter  again. 
Then  Ned  is  so  quick,  so  grateful,  so  diffident,  so  willing, — 
ready  to  write,  to  run,  to  measure,  to  learn ;  no  one  can 


THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS.  475 

help  liking  him,  trusting  him,  buying  of  him.  Bob  feels 
he  's  a  treasure,  will  double  the  custom  of  the  store,  will 
assure  prompt  payments,  will  keep  every  thing  like  clock- 
work ;  the  crabbed  selfishness  which  possessed  him  melts 
into  his  habitual  kindly  selfishness  ;  the  new  horses,  unpaid 
note,  borrowed  money,  are  forgotten.  Ned  is  admitted  to 
the  firm  on  what  he  looks  upon  as  excellent  terms,  on  what 
Robert  Strong,  Jr.,  regards  as  conditions  of  unexampled 
generosity,  on  what  Robert.  Sen.,  denounces  as  a  footing 
that  is  adverse  to  all  wisdom  and  success. 

V. 

Let  us  turn  the  tube  again.  It  is  the  old  store,  with  the 
old  sign,  but  so  improved  inwardly,  so  stocked  and  method- 
ized, that  the  grandfather's  ghost  must  have  long  since  de- 
serted it.  The  picayune  look  has  given  place  to  a  com- 
plexion of  golden  eagles.  Business  has  quadrupled  under 
Ned's  hands,  for  he  can  talk  to  every  farmer  of  his  crops, 
to  every  dame  of  her  poultry,  to  the  village  belle  of  the  last 
novel,  to  the  lawyer  of  the  latest  news  from  Washington, 
and  yet  all  the  time  can  measure,  and  count,  and  write 
memoranda, — as  though  every  finger  had  a  mind  and  a 
mouth.  Never  was  so  popular  a  salesman,  so  accurate  an 
accountant,  so  tasteful  a  purchaser  of  stock,  so  accommo- 
dating and  clever  a  fellow  known  before  in  the  town  of 
Huntville.  Let  us  step  in,  and  have  a  chat  with  him. 
Which  is  he  ?  That !  that  Ned  Pond  !  That  pale,  thin- 
faced,  hollow-eyed  man!  Why,  Ned  was  health  itself  in 
a  human  form,  when  we  saw  him  last ;  and  that  man  is 
marked  for  the  grave.  Very  true,  sad  as  it  is ;  but  to  rise 
at  daylight,  bend  over  the  counter  till  dark,  and  write  till 
midnight,  are  things  that  might  turn  health  itself  to  a  skel- 
eton, especially  if  health  had  lived  till  twenty-two  in  the 
open  air,  and  gone  to  bed  with  the  birds.  But  why,  you 
ask,  does  he  not  desert  for  the  fields  again,  throw  his  yard- 


476  THE    KINDNESS   THAT   KILLS. 

stick  at  the  head  of  the  first  person  who  opposes  him,  and 
save  his  ebbing  life,  while  it  is  not  yet  too  late  ?  To  an- 
swer this  to  your  mind,  we  must  look  elsewhere. 

VI. 

Tread  softly  ;  speak  low  ;  or,  rather,  speak  not  at  all,  but 
look  and  listen.  It  is  a  sick-room,  that 's  plain.  The  easy- 
chair,  the  phials,  the  half-drawn  curtain,  the  little  messes  on 
the  hearth,  the  solemn  old  skin-and-bones  in  a  petticoat, 
that  is  gliding  about,  tell  us  so  much.  It  is  the  room,  too,  I 
guess,  of  one  whose  life  is  sickness,  not  of  a  fever  patient 
or  sudden  sufferer  of  any  kind.  The  air  has  the  subdued 
character  of  hospital  air  ;  the  doors  turn  on  their  hinges  as 
though  they  had  not  slammed  for  years ;  the  windows  are 
listed  at  every  crack ;  the  little  saucepan  by  the  embers 
hums  as  though  it  had  hummed  there  from  childhood ;  the 
night-lamp,  the  worn  Bible,  the  wrapper,  the  watch-pocket 
hanging  to  the  mantle,  —  every  thing  bears  the  mark  of  the 
constant  sufferer,  the  habitual  invalid.  The  nurse  draws 
the  window  curtain  a  little,  to  look  into  the  mysteries  hid- 
den in  the  little  humming  saucepan,  and  now  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  sick  woman.  You  were  right ;  it  is,  as  you 
guessed,  Ellen, —  thinner,  paler,  with  an  eye  that  lets  the  soul 
forth  even  more  than  formerly,  but  still  the  same  as  when 
she  stumbled  over  the  bee-hive.  "  Is  it  almost  seven  ? " 
she  says.  How  the  voice  goes  through  you,  like  a  voice 
from  beyond  the  grave.  The  old  atomy  fumbles  for  the 
watch,  then  fumbles  over  it,  rubs  her  eyes,  rubs  the  watch, 
and  while  she  still  hesitates  between  the  hands,  and  is  not 
quite  sure  whether  it  's  just  past  seven,  or  half  past  twelve, 
an  outer  door  opens,  feet  are  heard  on  the  mat,  on  the 
floor-cloth,  the  silent  hinges  of  the  sick-room  door  revolve, 
and  Ned  is  bending  over  the  thankful  face,  and  has  kissed 
away  the  tears  of  joy  that  rise  from  those  dark,  fathomless 
soul-fountains.  "  I  shall  be  at  home  this  evening,  Ellen." 


THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS.  477 

What  good  news !  But  why  does  he  call  her  Ellen  ?  It  is 
only  when  very  serious,  that  Ned  and  Nelly  turn  into  Edward 
and  Ellen.  She  asks  him  with  her  hollow  eyes.  He  smiles, 
and  says  he  has  to  talk  to  her  of  business,  of  new  plans,  of 
an  offer  that  may  give  him  leisure,  and  perhaps  with  leis- 
ure renewed  health.  And  now  the  nurse  arranges  the  little 
table  by  the  bedside,  where  the  childless  couple  eat  togeth- 
er. Childless!  yes,  so  men  say, —  not  so  they  feel.  Two 
infants  have  been  born  into  this  world  under  that  roof,  and 
—  shall  we  say  "  alas  "?  —  have  been  also  born  there  out 
of  this  world  into  a  higher.  Their  dust  lies  where  that  of 
the  mother,  at  least,  must  soon  mingle  with  it.  While  they 
talk  of  common  things  until  the  curious  old  woman  goes  to 
her  own  domains,  let  us  look  into  another  household. 

VII. 

This  round-shouldered,  dark-browed,  middle-aged  man, 
who  sits  scowling,  and  pouting,  and  shaking  his  head  at  the 
fire,  as  if  he  saw  some  mortal  foe  there,  is  a  new  acquaint- 
ance, I  think.  So  is  his  wife,  comely  and  comfortable,  who 
is  nodding  in  the  rocking-chair  opposite,  without  any  vision 
of  a  mortal  foe  in  the  universe.  If  you  please,  I  will  let 
you  a  little  into  their  history.  This  is  John  Strawbridge, 
whose  sign  for  five  years  past  has  been  opposite  to  that  of 
Strong  &  Co.,  and  whose  heart  for  five  years  past  has  been 
getting  more  and  more  entangled  by  the  junior  partner  of 
his  rivals  over  the  way.  Mr.  Strawbridge  and  his  wife  are 
English  people,  with  that  dogged  virtue,  that  bigotted  ex- 
cellence, that  narrow-minded  generosity,  which  marks  the 
true  Anglo-Saxon ;  the  American  branch  of  the  great  Teu- 
tonic stream  is  wider,  but  not  half  so  deep.  Mr.  Straw- 
bridge,  we  say,  has  been  charmed  by  our  friend  Ned  ; 
his  kindliness,  his  open  heart  and  hand,  his  industry,  his 
care  of  his  sick  wife,  all  have  enlisted  John's  sympathy, 
respect,  and  love.  He  has  watched  Ned's  fading,  thinning 


478  THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS. 

cheek  ;  he  has  wondered,  as  you  did,  that  he  clung  to  what 
was  killing  him  ;  he  has  learned  the  secret,  in  Ellen's  sick- 
ness, in  her  need  of  that  rest,  that  attendance,  those  luxuries, 
which  a  poor  man  on  a  farm  cannot  command  ;  he  has 
learned,  too,  that  Ned  has  to  labor  as  he  does,  because  he 
cannot  afford  to  pay  an  assistant,  and  will  not  ask  Bob  Strong 
to  do  what  their  agreement  does  not  call  for ;  and  having 
learned  and  talked  over  these  things  with  his  wife,  Mr. 
Strawbridge  made  up  his  mind  yesterday  to  interfere,  and 
save  Ned.  To-day  he  did  interfere,  and  all  this  pouting  and 
scowling  comes  of  it.  Let  us  see  why.  Immediately  after 
breakfast,  this  morning,  he  brushed  his  hat  very  carefully, 
wiped  the  dust  from  his  shoes,  and  walked  up  to  see  Mr. 
Robert  Strong,  no  longer  Jr.,  for  the  father  has  followed  the 
grandfather. 

He  found  Bob  as  easy,  as  happy,  as  jocose,  as  self-satis- 
fied as  ever  ;  he  was  delighted  to  see  Mr.  Strawbridge, 
offered  him  a  cigar  (John  would  as  soon  have  put  a  scor- 
pion's tail  into  his  mouth),  asked  his  opinion  of  a  new  pat- 
tern of  spittoon  he  had  imported,  proposed  to  sell  him  twenty 
town  lots  in  an  imaginary  village,  somewhere  between  Chi- 
cago and  the  north  pole,  and  rattled  on  about  horses  and 
crops,  Baltimore  oysters  and  native  wines,  until  the  pa- 
tience of  the  Briton  was  more  than  threadbare.  At  last  Bob 
rested  for  a  space,  and  Mr.  Strawbridge  introduced  his  busi- 
ness. 

"  A  fine  young  man  your  Mr.  Pond." 

"  First-rate,"  answered  Bob,  suspecting  nothing. 

"  But  not  well ;  ill,  very  ill,  I  think." 

"  O,  as  the  world  goes,"  said  Bob,  who  had  never  been 
sick  a  day,  had  suffered  nothing,  denied  himself  in  nothing, 
and  knew  no  more  of  Ned's  condition,  state  of  body,  and 
frame  of  mind,  than  a  butterfly  does  of  the  United  States 
Constitution,  —  "as  the  world  goes,"  said  he,  "Ned  Pond  is 
a  strong  man,  does  an  immensity  of  work." 


THE   KINDNESS    THAT   KILLS.  479 

"  Too  much  work,"  suggested  John  ;  "  killing  himself, 
Mr.  Strong." 

"  O,  trust  me  for  that,"  replied  Bob ;  "  I  'm  his  friend. 
He  '11  be  a  nabob  yet.  I  've  put  him  in  the  way  of  fortune. 
I  know  he  feels  grateful,  and  works  hard  ;  he  's  right ;  nev- 
er you  mind  his  health,  Mr.  Strawbridge." 

With  this,  Bob  cocked  on  his  hat,  lighted  a  fresh  cigar, 
and  intimated  a  wish  to  walk  down  town ;  and  so  the  nar- 
row-minded Englishman  found  himself  nonplussed. 

John  Strawbridge  went  to  his  store  almost  too  angry  to 
care  for  Ned  or  any  body ;  but  when  the  pale,  clear-eyed 
young  man  came  by,  and  stopped  to  speak,  first  to  one,  and 
then  to  another,  and  at  last  to  himself,  saying  to  each,  some- 
how, the  very  pleasantest  thing  possible,  John's  fog  rose, 
and  he  was  the  same  sunny  soul  as  ever.  Then  he  deter- 
mined to  talk  to  Ned  himself,  and  urge  him  to  quit  his  close, 
killing  confinement.  So  he  sent  over  his  boy  and  asked  Mr. 
Pond  to  spend  half  an  hour  with  him  after  dinner.  Ned, 
wondering,  went  to  the  rival  counting-room,  anticipating 
some  business  perplexity,  some  misunderstanding  or  trouble 
of  one  kind  or  another.  How  astonished  was  he  to  learn  the 
object  of  his  interview,  —  to  find  this  heavy-browed  neigh- 
bour of  his  anxious  that  he  should  earn  an  independence  on 
easier  terms,  and  even  ready,  if  it  could  be  done  without 
violating  contracts,  —  John  would  not  have  violated  a  con- 
tract to  pay  the  national  debt  of  Great  Britain,  —  to  give 
Ned  a  birth  himself,  which  would  insure  him  a  competence, 
and  time  enough  to  preserve  the  life  that  yet  throbbed  in  his 
veins !  But  he  was  bound  to  Mr.  Strong  for  ten  years  ;  six 
only  had  passed.  True,  but  he  had  made  Mr.  Strong's  prof- 
its fourfold.  Ought  he  not  to  receive  a  portion  with  which 
to  hire  aid,  —  aid  which  was  required,  because  he  had  so 
increased  the  business,  and  with  it  the  profits  ?  Ned  scarce 
liked  to  open  the  matter  to  one  who  had  befriended  him  in 
time  of  need,  had  enabled  him  to  marry,  buy  a  house,  and 


480  THE    KINDNESS   THAT   KILLS. 

give  his  sick  wife  all  she  wanted,  —  who  had  done  every 
thing  for  him.  He  would  consult  his  wife,  however,  he 
said  ;  and  to  this  Mr.  Strawbridge,  who  always  consulted  his, 
when  she  was  awake,  could  not  object ;  and  thus  came 
about  Ned's  evening  at  home,  and  John's  faces  at  the  unof- 
fending fire. 

VIII. 

Ned  and  Nelly  talked  the  matter  over  at  length,  and 
passed  a  unanimous  vote  that  Ned  had  better  say  nothing  to 
his  partner  about  the  matter.  Nelly,  however,  down  deep  in 
her  soul,  determined  that,  the  first  time  she  was  well  enough 
to  write,  she  would  herself  pen  a  line  to  Mr.  Strong,  and 
ask  him  to  be,  what  he  had  always  been,  a  true  friend.  But 
do  not  think  because  she  proposed  to  write,  that  Bob  never 
came  near  his  partner's  sick  wife  ;  he  was  too  kindly  not  to 
do  that,  and,  more  than  once  in  the  month,  usually,  drew  up 
his  horses  at  her  door,  and  perfumed  her  chamber  with  the 
sphere  of  Havanna  which  accompanied  his  steps.  Nelly, 
however,  dared  not  trust  herself  to  talk,  so  she  determined  to 
write.  And  she  did  write,  and,  foolish,  unsuspecting  child 
that  she  was,  told  of  the  offer  made  by  Mr.  Strawbridge. 
Had  she  not  done  this,  Bob's  easy,  kindly  selfishness  would 
probably  have  led  him  to  do  the  very  thing  that  was  wanted, 
when  urged  by  the  gentle,  persuasive  tone  of  the  invalid. 
But  to  learn  that  his  partner  and  his  rival  were  conspiring, — 
conspiring  to  break  the  agreement  which  had  been  acknowl- 
edged by  Ned  as  a  great  favor  done  him, — conspiring 
to  defraud  him,  the  benefactor,  of  his  dues,  and  make  him 
pay  a  clerk,  that  the  poor  country  boy  he  had  befriended 
might  live  in  ease  and  luxury, —  we  cannot  tell  how  much 
virtuous  indignation  at  such  treachery  and  meanness  bub- 
bled up  in  Bob's  breast ;  bubbled  over,  indeed,  into  a  reply, 
which  tore  another  year,  it  may  be  believed,  from  Ellen's 
short  span  of  life.  She  burned  it,  she  tried  to  forget  it ;  but 


THE    KINDNESS    THAT    KILLS.  481 

it  never  left  her.  Why  ?  Because  she  feared  that,  God 
forgive  them,  they  were  ungrateful  to  their  greatest  earthly 
benefactor. 

IX. 

Let" us  turn  the  glass  once  more.  The  little  town  is  in 
utter  consternation.  Mr.  Strawbridge  is  rushing,  bare- 
headed, for  the  doctor ;  the  clerks  of  Strong  &  Co.  are  so 
pale  and  palpitating,  that  every  ribbon  and  silk  in  the  store 
might  be  carried  away  and  they  unable  to  resist  ;  the  very 
lawyer  runs  out,  leaving  all  his  papers  for  the  winds  to  play 
with,  in  order  that  he  may  learn  the  particulars.  Alas  !  the 
particulars  are  few  and  soon  learned,  —  Ned  Pond  in  lifting 
a  case  of  goods  has  broken  a  bloodvessel,  and  has  been 
carried  home,  dying  or  dead.  Every  man,  woman,  and 
child,  as  the  word  spreads,  feels  as  though  a  little  piece  had 
been  taken  from  his  own  heart.  No  one  knew  how  dear 
Ned  had  been  to  him  till  now  that  Ned  is  gone,  —  that  bright 
face  gone,  that  pleasant  voice  stilled  to  all  earthly  ears. 
Night  comes  half  an  hour  sooner  than  it  ever  did  before, — 
sinks  upon  every  threshold  with  deeper  darkness.  Away 
in  the  country  men  put  their  hands  to  their  chins  and  tell 
how  sudden  it  was  !  and  at  his  mother's  ?  at  his  home  ? 
dare  you  go  thither  ? 

X. 

Look  at  this  scene.  Bob  has  been  suddenly  wakened 
from  his  afternoon  nap  by  slamming  doors.  He  starts  up 
with  a  look  of  singular  anxiety.  He  has  been  dreaming, 
what  he  often  dreams  lately,  that  Ellen,  pale  as  a  spirit, 
has  been  to  beseech  him  to  save  her  husband.  He  had 
heard  the  doctor  say  three  months  ago  that  Ned  could  not 
live  if  he  did  not  stop  working  so.  "  He  chooses  to  do  it," 
said  Bob  to  hisconscience.  Conscience  entered  into  no  dis- 
cussion, but  intimated  that  he  was  not  telling  the  truth,  and 

VOL.    I.  41 


482  THE    KINDNESS   THAT    KILLS. 

Bob  turned  away.  But  in  his  dreams  conscience  plays  the 
tyrant ;  he  is  haunted  before  his  time.  A  year  has  passed 
since  that  cruel  note  to  the  sick  wife,  and  day  by  day  he 
has  seen  the  husband  fail,  and  speak  no  word.  He  begins 
to  tremble  ;  he  questions  whether  he  has  been  as  generous 
as  he  deemed  himself;  he  is  resolved  to  release  his  partner 
from  his  old  bond  that  has  enslaved  him  now  these  seven 
years.  He  starts  up,  as  we  say,  with  a  strange  look  of 
anxiety  ;  rubs  his  eyes  ;  resolves  he  'II  do  it  to-morrow,  and 
lay  this  ghost  that  pursues  him.  Calmed  by  his  good  reso- 
lution, he  tries  to  sleep  again,  when  the  door  opens,  his  el- 
dest girl  rushes  in,  and,  forgetting  all  in  her  grief  for  Ned, 
whom  she  loved  dearly,  throws  herself  at  her  father's  knees, 
and  sobs  out,  "  U  papa  !  papa  !  he  's  dead  !  "  "  Who  ? 
what  ?  when  ?  "  "  Dear  Ned  Pond,  papa  !  he  died  at  the 
store,  —  died  at  his  work  !  "  Died  at  his  work  !  How  will 
you  lay  the  ghost  now,  selfishly  generous  man  ? 

XI. 

Once  more  we  look  into  the  chamber  of  the  invalid.  The 
little  saucepan  is  silent ;  the  voice  of  time,  as  instant  after  in- 
stant is  told  off,  alone  breaks  the  stillness.  Who  sits  by  the 
bedside?  It  is  the  beetle-browed  Englishman,  calm  and 
mournful.  Is  he  watching  by  the  sick  ?  No,  but  by  the 
dead.  And  where  is  Ellen  ?  Too  ill  to  be  here  ?  No, 
she  is  here,  and  never  did  her  plain  features  seem  so  beauti- 
ful ;  but  the  eye  is  closed,  —  yes,  closed  in  death.  The  blow 
was  too  much  for  one  so  weak.  Side  by  side  they  lie  there  ; 
or  no,  not  they,  but  their  decaying  and  corruptible  frames. 
They  at  last  are  free :  the  family  circle  is  again  formed  : 
the  parents  and  the  children  have  met  together. 

A  knock  is  heard  on  the  door,  a  step  in  the  entry ;  the  si- 
lent hinges  turn  ;  Robert  Strong  enters  the  room.  He  has 
been  requested  to  watch  there  with  John  Strawbridge,  and 
he  dares  not  refuse.  How  the  night  lingers  !  Not  a  word  ; 


THE    KINDNESS   THAT   KILLS.  483 

not  a  motion,  unless  when  the  air  from  the  half-opened  win- 
dow stirs  the  bed-curtains,  and  the  shadows  dance  and  whis- 
per, and  then  sleep  again.  Hour  after  hour  the  watch  ticks, 
and  the  pulses  of  the  living  beat,  and  their  breath  comes 
and  goes,  and  memory  and  conscience  have  all  the  conver- 
sation to  themselves.  It  is  a  terrible  night  to  Robert ;  but  is 
it  only  terrible  ?  Does  no  clearer  insight  into  life  and  duty 
come  to  him  ?  no  comprehension  that  mere  impulse  is  not 
God's  voice,  and  that  no  kindly-selfishness  will  take  the 
place  of  true,  thoughtful,  consistent,  enduring,  self-denying 
kindness  ?  Let  us  trust  that  he  is  learning  in  these  silent 
hours  that  there  is  an  aid  which  is  no  aid,  a  generosity  which 
is  robbery,  a  kindness  that  kills. 


CHARITY  IN    THE   COUNTING-HOUSE  AND 
OUT   OF  IT. 


IT  's  a  desolate  place,  that  suburb  of  Fulton.  Of  a  cold, 
dark  evening,  when  the  easterly  wind  draws  down  the  val- 
leys, and  the  clouds  drift  by  with  a  snow-spit  now  and  then) 
I  know  not  of  a  more  desolate  place  on  earth.  The  long 
Front  Street  of  Cincinnati,  which  runs  by  the  river-side,  and 
follows  the  vagaries  of  the  stream,  at  length  runs  close 
under  the  hills,  and  melts  into  the  single  avenue  which 
forms  the  thoroughfare  of  the  superb  city  of  Fulton.  In 
front  rolls  the  turbid  Ohio ;  behind  rise  the  precipitous 
hills,  whence  clay  avalanches  for  ever  noiselessly  slide, 
pressing  houses  and  stores  hourly  forward,  forward,  like  an 
inexorable  fate. 

Slowly,  wearily,  through  the  mud  of  that  single  thorough- 
fare, now  on  planks,  now  on  the  railway  which  runs  in  the 
rnidst  of  the  street,  now  on  the  curb-stone  of  some  intended, 
but  never  completed  sidewalk,  the  straight,  soldier-like  form 
of  Ferdinand  Spalding  glanced  amid  the  increasing  snow- 
flakes,  as  he  struggled,  after  a  long  day's  work,  to  seek  the 
material  of  more  work.  On  his  left  lay  the  ship-yards, 
with  their  ribs  of  future  leviathans  glistening  in  the  ghostly 
snow-light.  Hill-pressed  houses,  nodding  in  tipsy  reverie, 
uncertain  when  to  tumble,  glowered  on  his  right.  Before 
him,  the  locomotive,  filling  the  street  with  its  black-white 


CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT.      485 

breath,  and  turning  the  snow-flakes  to  grains  of  gold  with  its 
fiery  eye,  came  screaming,  crushing  onward.  But  Ferdi- 
nand saw  not  the  silent  spectral  forms  around  him,  heard 
not  the  shriek  of  the  monster  that  drew  near.  The  voice- 
less electricity,  which,  overhead,  was  carrying  on  the  chit, 
chat  of  men  a  thousand  miles  apart,  had  no  interest  for  him 
at  that  moment.  He  had  left  hungry  children,  a  fireless 
hearth,  a  sick  wife,  behind  him  ;  and  his  soul,  commonly  as 
free  from  care  as  a  bird,  was  for  a  while  bowed  down. 
Slowly,  wearily,  Ferdinand  has  passed  by  the  embryo 
steamers,  the  grating  saw-mills,  the  chipping,  splitting,  plan- 
ing machines,  the  subterranean  rolling-mills,  where  half- 
clad,  brawny  men  struggle  for  ever  with  red-hot  serpents  of 
iron,  and  has  entered  the  city,  as  street  after  street  becomes 
conscious  of  gas. 

It  was  the  same  snow-spitting  evening ;  two  men,  longer 
in  conversation  than  usual,  still  sat  over  the  store  stove  in 
Main  Street.  The  gloomy  night  grew  darker,  and  still  they 
talked. 

"  I  give  freely,"  said  the  younger,  buttoning  his  sack- 
coat  over  a  somewhat  corpulent  person,  and  drawing  him- 
self up  with  an  air  of  satisfaction.  "  For  my  means,  Dea- 
con Stiles,  I  give  freely.  I  know  the  wants  of  the  poor,  Sir. 
I  have  visited  the  poor.  My  wife,  your  niece,  Sir,  does 
nothing  but  mother  them.  I  give  freely,  but  never  blindly, 
Deacon  Stiles  ;  never  blindly." 

The  elder,  who  had  been  sitting,  doubled  up,  with  his 
small,  quiet  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stove,  suddenly  opened 
those  eyes  to  double  dimensions,  laughed  in  a  supernatural- 
ly  noiseless  manner,  and  turning  his  cud,  repeated,  "Never 
blindly,  never  blindly,  Reuben  ;  freely,  I  know  it,  but  never 
blindly  "  ;  and  he  chuckled  again,  like  a  spectre. 

"  There  are  men  in  business,"  said  Reuben,  emphatically 
nodding  his  head,  "  who  do  as  well  as  I  do,  and  buy  real 
estate  out  of  their  profits,  and  who  give  nothing  to  the  suf- 
41* 


486      CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT. 

fering.  I  know  the  men,  I  can  put  my  finger  on  them. 
Others  give  to  every  beggar ;  they  make  beggars.  They 
are  beggar-breeders,  Sir.  They  ought  to  be  fined,  taxed, 
to  support  the  paupers  they  bring  on  us.  In  this  country, 
Deacon  Stiles,  no  honest,  industrious  man  need  want;  if  he 
has  health,  you  know,  of  course.  Show  me  the  well  man 
that  says  he  is  suiluring,  and  1  '11  show  you  a  rogue,  Sir,  — 
an  impostor,  Sir,  —  or  a  lazy,  drunken  vagabond.  1  know 
the  pour ;  I  have  been  in  their  houses." 

u  Wife,"  said  the  Deacon,  laughing  through  his  nose,  as 
lie  spoke,  "  children,  —  scarlet  fever,  —  measles,  —  can't 
work,  —  no  tools,  —  doctor  took  them." 

Reuben's  mind  seemed  hardly  to  follow  the  argument  of 
which  his  companion  gave  the  heads,  so  he  went  back  to 
his  own  experiences. 

"  My  neighbour,  next  door  here,  has  a  theory  that  a  great 
many  can  be  helped  best  by  making  them  loans,  giving 
them  credit,  and  so  on.  It  's  all  nonsense.  He  makes  beg- 
gars. Such  fellows  need  to  be  dealt  with  strictly.  Make 
them  pay  for  what  they  buy,  pay  cash ;  that  's  the  way  to 
make  them  active,  thriving,  prompt." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  same  soldier- 
like person  that  we  saw  coming  through  the  mire  of  Fulton 
entered,  took  ofT  his  straw  hat,  bowed  stiffly,  and  asked  if 
"  the  proprietor"  was  in.  Reuben  coming  forward  as  such, 
the  inquiry  was  made  for  red  flannel.  "I  am  usually  a 
purchaser  from  your  neighbour,"  said  Spalding,  "  but  he  is 
closed.  I  have  an  order,  which  must  be  completed  to-mor- 
row noon,  or  I  shall  not  be  entitled  to  my  pay  ;  and  I  must 
work  till  past  midnight  to  complete  it."  As  he  said  this, 
his  lip  trembled,  and  his  eye  swam.  Reuben  turned  to 
present  his  goods,  when  the  other  stopped  him,  and  said, 
painfully,  it  seemed,  but  resolutely,  "  If  I  buy,  Sir,  I  cannot 
pay  you  till  to-morrow,  when  I  shall  receive  payment  my- 
self." 


CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT.     487 

Reuben  looked  at  the  Deacon,  and  smiled.  "  Did  not  I 
tell  you  so  ?  My  neighbour  makes  beggars,  does  n't  he, 
Deacon  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  beggar,  Sir,"  said  Spalding,  half  amazed,  half 
angry. 

"I  spoke  to  this  gentleman,"  replied  Reuben,  as  he  took 
his  chair  again.  "  I  have  no  flannel  to  sell  you,  my  friend." 

The  stiff  bow  was  repeated,  the  straw  hat  replaced,  and 
the  cashless  purchaser  passed  out  once  more  into  the  storm. 
He  tried  one  or  two  other  stores,  but  to  no  purpose ;  so, 
making  up  his  mind  to  come  at  early  dawn  to  his  usual 
place  of  purchase,  he  turned  to  retrace  his  steps  over  the 
desolate  path  he  had  so  lately  trodden  in  vain. 

"  My  neighbour  makes  beggars,"  repeated  Reuben,  as 
the  door  closed.  The  Deacon,  who  had  watched  the  coun- 
tenance, manner,  and  voice  of  Spalding  with  his  half-shut 
eyes,  laughed  in  his  soul,  and  said  to  his  companion,  in  a 
queer,  confidential  way,  as  though  the  store  had  been  filled 
with  people,  "Wrong,  Reuben;  honest,  —  works  hard, — 
seen  better  times." 

Reuben  would  have  gone  into  an  argument  to  prove  that 
he  was  right  ;  but  the  Deacon,  shaking  with  noiseless  mirth, 
stopped  him  with,  "  No  talk,  no  talk ;  rnind,  I  want  flannel 
myself.  Cash  here." 

The  young  tradesman  laughed  heartily  at  the  idea  of  re- 
quiring the  rich  old  Deacon  to  pay  cash,  but  nevertheless 
took  the  money,  and  the  two  soon  parted.  Reuben  returned 
to  listen  —  over  his  steak  and  young  hyson  —  to  his  wife's 
account  of  the  poor  she  had  been  mothering  that  day  ; 
while  the  old  man,  who  lived  near  Columbia,  got  into  his 
wagon,  and  began  the  perilous  journey  through  the  heights 
and  depths,  the  broken  pavements  and  immeasurable  mud- 
holes,  of  the  same  pathway  which  Spalding  was  pursuing  on 
foot.  Deacon  Stiles  knew  very  well  that  Spalding  was  pur- 
suing it ;  he  knew  where  he  lived,  had  inquired  into  his 


488     CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT. 

condition,  had  sent  him,  or  rather  his  wife,  customers  ;  and 
yet  this  dismal  evening,  as  he  passed  the  weary  walker, 
though  he  looked  closely  at  him,  he  did  not  stop,  as  one 
might  have  supposed  he  would,  to  take  him  up ;  but  drove 
quietly  by,  and  left  the  straw  hat  to  catch  the  snow-flakes  at 
its  leisure.  Had  Reuben  been  there,  he  would  certainly 
have  said,  "  Wrong,  Deacon."  Perhaps  the  old  man  thought 
so ;  for  his  head  shook  as  if  palsy-stricken  with  the  laughter 
that  filled  him,  as  an  earthquake  might  some  gray  old  con- 
tinent. 

Round  a  fireless  fireplace  stood  four  shivering  children. 
In  their  midst,  on  his  knees,  a  fifth  was  trying  to  kindle 
some  wet  chips  that  he  had  just  brought  from  the  ship-yard, 
as  he  returned  from  his  day's  work  at  the  bagging- factory. 
On  the  bed  lay  the  mother,  a  new-born  infant,  and  a  little 
girl  with  the  quinsy.  Of  the  two  boys  and  two  girls  who 
stood  about  the  fire-builder,  but  one  had  on  shoes, —  it  was 
the  smallest,  not  two  years  old.  A  pile  of  red-flannel  shirts 
lay  upon  a  bureau.  The  room  was  clean,  and,  had  there 
been  a  fire,  would  have  been  quite  cheerful,  with  its  white 
curtains  and  engravings.  Over  the  mantel  hung  a  portrait 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  above  it,  the  sword  of  an 
English  officer. 

The  fire  kindles,  goes  out  again ;  once  more  it  lights  up, 
and  the  little  solemn  faces  around  glisten,  and  half  smile  ; 
but  the  wet  drops  a  second  time  extinguish  their  hopes. 

"  It  's  too  hard  on  you,  John,"  said  the  pale  mother, 
faintly,  "  after  your  twelve  hours'  labor." 

"  Make  it  go  yet,  mother,"  answered  John,  with  a  tone 
that  was  a  perfect  challenge  to  despondency.  "  Father  's 
had  many  a  worse  time  making  fire  in  the  mountains." 

Hope  and  perseverance  conquer  ;  the  oak-chips  slowly 
catch  the  blaze  ;  picture  after  picture  on  the  whitewashed 
wall  wakes  up,  and  the  little  bare  toes  on  the  bare  floor  for- 
get to  curl  with  cold  any  longer.  The  child  with  the  quinsy 


CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT.      489 

tries  to  speak  her  gratitude  through  her  swollen  throat,  and 
the  mother  closes  her  eyes,  to  thank  God. 

There  comes  a  knock  at  the  door.  John,  who  had  stood 
back  to  give  the  youngsters  a  chance,  opens  it.  A  muffled 
form  is  seen  holding  out  a  bundle  of  some  kind  ;  a  pair  of 
eyes  which  are  small,  then  large,  looks  in  at  the  scene,  at 
the  just  kindled  fire,  and  comprehends  it  all. 

"  Flannel  for  to-night  for  father.  Pay  to-morrow,  next 
day.  Dollar,  —  work  to  be  done  next  week." 

John  takes  the  flannel  and  the  dollar-bill,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  what  it  all  means.  The  visitor  kisses  the  little  girl 
that  has  gone  to  the  door  to  see  who  is  come,  slips  some- 
thing into  her  hand,  and  slips  himself  down  the  abrupt  hill, 
over  the  rail  track,  to  the  road,  where  his  old  white  horse 
and  green  wagon  are  waiting  for  him.  No  one  on  earth 
heard  that  small  laugh  through  the  nose,  as  he  turned  his 
cud  with  closed  lips,  and  wiped  what  he  thought  the  snow- 
water out  of  his  eyes. 

"  So  father  bought  his  goods,"  said  the  poor  woman, 
thankfully,  "  but  what  the  dollar  means  I  don't  know.  Let 
us  thank  God  for  it,  though,  for  there  's  not  a  mouthful  in 
the  house  but  John's  dinner." 

John  was  about  to  say  he  had  his  dinner  at  the  factory,  — 
and,  indeed,  he  had  eaten  his  usual  chunk  of  bread  ;  for 
his  dinner  was  always  kept  till  evening,  it  tasted  so  much 
better  at  home,  —  but  he  remembered  the  dollar,  and  saved 
himself  from  the  temptation.  He  did  not  want  to  lie,  even 
to  give  them  a  meal. 

Little  Mora,  meanwhile,  had  run  to  the  fire,  to  see  what 
the  strange  man  had  given  her.  It  was  a  paper  of  sugar- 
plums and  candy,  with  an  orange  at  the  bottom  of  the  bag. 
"  That  was  for  mamma ;  they  all  knew  that  was  for  mam- 
ma ";  and  the  most  delicate  morsels  of  cream-candy  were 
for  poor  Kate  ;  they  would  n't  hurt  her  throat  one  bit.  "  But 
who  could  the  strange  man  be  ?  "  There  was  no  end  of 


490     CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT. 

wondering.  In  half  an  hour,  the  father's  step  was  heard. 
The  door  opened  ;  the  children  sprang  to  meet  him.  He  em- 
braced them  with  a  mournful  face  ;  but  their  hearts  were  so 
bright  that  their  eyes  were  dim,  and  they  saw  in  his  counte- 
nance reflected  the  joy  that  sparkled  in  their  own. 

"  And  who  was  it  brought  your  flannel?"  said  the  mother, 
"  and  what  does  the  dollar  mean  ?  " 

"  Flannel !  dollar !  "  cried  Ferdinand,  with  amazement. 
The  articles  were  shown  him,  but  there  was  no  end  of  won- 
dering. The  cry  still  was,  "  Who  could  the  strange  man 
be  ?  " 

However,  the  dollar  was  used,  and  John  ate  his  dinner  in 
company. 

Long  after  those  merry  eyes  were  closed,  and  those  cheer- 
ful voices  silenced,  Ferdinand  was  at  work.  The  sick  child 
turned  and  moaned,  and  he  gave  it  drink,  and  it,  too,  slept 
at  length.  He  beat  up  his  wife's  pillow,  walked  the  uneasy 
infant  to  rest,  and  in  the  intervals,  and  after  all  were  lost  to 
this  world's  trials,  his  needle  was  busy.  It  was  a  strange 
sight,  doubtless,  to  any  ghosts  that  flitted  through  Fulton  that 
night,  —  this  old  soldier  of  the  Peninsula  making  flannel 
shirts  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio. 

Spalding  had  come  to  America  with  a  competence.  He 
had  bought  a  farm  in  Ohio,  —  had  been  ruined  by  Merino 
sheep  and  indorsements.  Giving  up  every  thing,  he  moved 
to  Cincinnati,  where  he  knew  one  man  ;  that  man  was  on 
his  deathbed,  and  could  not  aid  him.  For  months  he  had 
sought  in  vain  for  employment.  He  knew  no  one ;  his  man- 
ner was  abrupt,  his  pride  strong  ;  and  but  for  some  sewing 
which  his  wife  was  doing,  they  might  all  have  starved  or 
begged.  When  John  got  into  the  bagging-factory,  it  was  a 
help  ;  but  when  the  wife  was  prematurely  confined  in  the 
midst  of  a  contract  which  she  had  taken,  and  the  pay  for 
which  depended  on  the  exact  completion  of  her  work  upon 
a  specified  day,  all  seemed  lost.  But  Ferdinand  was  a  man 


CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT.      491 

of  resource ;  as  a  soldier,  he  had  used  the  needle,  and  he 
now  used  it  again. 

By  noon  the  next  day  the  shirts  were  placed  before  the 
employer,  and,  with  straw  hat  in  hand,  the  Englishman 
awaited  his  payment,  —  six  cents  for  each  shirt,  beyond  the 
cost  of  material.  With  microscopic  eyes  the  contractor  ex- 
amined the  stitches  ;  he  detected  the  man's  hand. 

"  Wont  do  ;  wont  do.     Who  made  these  ?  " 

"  My  wife  part,  I  part." 

"  Thought  so  ;  thought  so.  Can  't  have  them.  Poor 
trash,"  replied  the  store-keeper.  "  I  '11  give  you  the  cost 
of  the  material ;  not  a  cent  more." 

"  My  wife  is  sick  ;  we  are  starving.  Take  her's,  they  are 
well  made,"  cried  the  unhappy  substitute. 

"  All  or  none.  Cost  of  material  or  nothing.  Keep  them. 
Find  a  market  if  you  can." 

Too  proud  to  chaffer,  in  debt  for  the  flannel,  wholly  un- 
used to  such  scenes,  Spalding  took  the  offer  of  the  human 
vampire,  and,  with  a  heart  sick  against  his  fellows,  and  half 
rebellious  against  his  God,  turned  away. 

He  paid  the  merchant  who  had  trusted  him  for  most  of 
his  materials.  The  remainder  of  the  money,  and  the  rem- 
nant of  flannel  left  from  his  last  piece,  he  laid  away  until  the 
owner  should  appear. 

And  now  began  a  series  of  sacrifices,  self-denials,  and 
sufferings,  which  we  dare  not  attempt  to  describe.  Every 
salable  article  was  sold,  except  the  sword  and  the  portrait 
of  Wellington.  John's  wages  were  reserved  for  rent.  The 
money  due  the  strange  visitor  of  the  snowy  night  lay  in  the 
drawer,  but  no  one  thought  of  touching  it.  At  last,  an  offer 
was  made  of  some  work,  if  a  peculiar  material  could  be  had. 
Ferdinand  went  to  his  old  friend  ;  he  had  none  ;  there  was 
none,  he  thought,  in  town,  unless  at  Reuben  Small's.  With 
feet  of  lead,  Ferdinand  once  again  presented  himself  before 
the  man  who  gave  freely  to  the  poor.  Reuben  remembered 


492      CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT. 

the  straw  hat.  Had  he  cash  ?  No  ;  but  he  could  refer  to 
next  door  to  prove  his  punctuality.  Reuben  shook  his  head. 
The  article  was  scarce,  —  was  a  cash  article. 

"  But  I  am  poor,  Sir,  —  destitute." 

"  Then  work." 

"  How  can  I,  without  material  ?  " 

"  Are  you  a  seamstress  ?  " 

"  My  wife  is,  Sir." 

"  And  you,  like  a  lazy  vagabond,  depend  on  your  wife, 
do  you,  Sir  !  Leave  my  store  !  " 

Reuben  went  home,  full  of  virtuous  indignation. 

How  placidly  falls  the  fire-light  over  this  Saxony  carpet, 
these  velvet-covered  lounges,  these  damask  curtains,  —  how 
merrily  it  dances  in  the  tall  pier-glasses,  —  how  roguishly  it 
opens  for  an  instant  the  beauties  of  that  landscape  by  Whit- 
tridge,  then  plunges  it  in  darkness  again,  and  laughs  at  you 
from  the  engraving  after  Teniers,  or  glooms  from  the  copy 
of  Rembrandt !  The  silent  centre-table  is  heaped  with  the 
soul-heard  voices  of  the  dead,  —  Milton,  Dante,  Southey, — 
how  strange  they  must  feel  in  their  suits  of  gold  and  moroc- 
co !  A  little  woman  sits  by  the  grate,  rocking  anxiously. 
She  shades  her  face  with  a  paper.  Perhaps  it 's  the  National 
Era  ?  No  ;  she  's  a  kind  little  woman,  and  mothers  the 
poor,  but  she  hates  Antislavery.  She  has  an  uncle,  a  rich 
uncle,  in  Louisiana.  The  negroes  she  feels  sorry  for,  but 
what  business  has  the  North  to  meddle  with  slavery  ?  She 
would  like  to  have  that  question  answered.  She  gives  a  dol- 
lar a  month  to  send  King  James's  translation  to  Rome,  but 
what  has  Ohio  to  do  with  slavery  ? 

The  outer  door  opens  ;  there  is  a  scrubbing  and  grunting, 
a  knocking  effect,  clearing  of  throats,  and  blowing  of  noses, 
and  the  little  woman  rocks  more  and  more  nervously.  Then 
Reuben  enters.  "  O  Mr.  Small,"  says  the  little  wife, 
hurriedly,  "  I  'vc  heard  of  such  a  case  !  such  a  case  !  " 

Reuben  had  that  day  —  it  was  just  a  week  after  Spalding 


CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT.     493 

last  saw  him  —  given  five  dollars  to  the  agent  of  the  Protes- 
tant Society,  and  something  almost  like  a  frown  crossed  his 
brow  at  this  threatened  attack  on  his  pocket ;  however,  it 
might  have  been  a  wrinkle  of  fire-light. 

"  The  Thompsons,  that  had  n't  a  pillow-case  in  the  house, 
was  nothing  to  it,"  said  Mrs.  Small.  "  The  Browns'  case 
was  a  sad  one,"  she  continued  ;  "  no  tea,  no  sugar,  for  an 
age  ;  but  this  is  real  starvation,  Reuben,  —  positive  starving 
to  death  !  You  must  go  with  me  to-morrow  morning  and 
see  it.  We  '11  have  the  carriage,  and  go  after  breakfast, 
and  you  can  be  back  by  eleven." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  Where  would  you  take  me,  my  love  ? 
I  'm  a  man  of  business ;  remember,  Mrs.  Small,  a  man  of 
business." 

"  But  you  must  go,  Reuben  ;  you  must  go.  Uncle  Stiles, 
who  told  me  about  it,  said  you  must  go  ;  he  wished  you  to 

go-" 

"  Ah  !  well,  my  love,  well  !  Deacon  Stiles  !  Well,  if  he 
desires  it,  of  course.  I  respect  the  Deacon,  Mrs.  Small. 
But  how  comes  he  to  know  any  thing  of  the  poor  ?  Does  he 
visit  the  poor  ?  He  's  a  rich  man,  a  fine  man,  Uncle  Stiles  ; 
but  a  little  careful,  I  think,  my  love,  —  a  little  close  ;  hardly 
gives  like  some  of  us,"  and  Reuben  laughed  happily.  He 
thought  partly  of  his  own  free-giving,  partly  of  the  unencum- 
bered property  of  his  wife's  bachelor  uncle. 

This  same  old  bachelor,  after  his  visit  to  Spalding's  with 
the  flannel,  had  been  tied  to  his  bed  by  rheumatism  ;  perhaps 
that  hunt  in  the  snow  for  the  shirt-maker's  house  had  some 
hand  in  it.  However,  on  the  morning  of  the  day  we  now 
write  of,  he  had  got  out  again,  and  on  his  way  to  town  had 
called  at  the  same  house,  with  some  work  he  had  trumped 
up,  to  pay  for  the  dollar  he  had  given  them.  He  knocked 
at  the  door  ;  no  one  came.  A  second  and  third  knock  were 
unanswered.  He  ventured  to  lift  the  latch,  and  enter. 

It  was  a  bright  morning,  but  the  curtains  of  the  little  apart- 

VOL.  I.  42 


494     CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT. 

merit  were  all  drawn,  and  at  first  he  could  see  nothing. 
Then  came  to  his  eyes  a  bed,  and  by  it  were  kneeling  some 
sobbing  children.  What  was  on  the  bed  ?  He  could  not 
see.  He  drew  nearer.  A  sheet  covered  the  whole  surface 
of  the  shuck  mattress.  With  pious  hands,  gently  he  folded 
it  down  ;  three  forms,  cold  as  the  ice  on  the  threshold,  lay 
there,  side  by  side,  —  a  mother,  an  infant,  and  a  little  girl 
of  five  or  six  years  old,  —  all  so  wasted  that  it  was  terrible 
to  look  upon  their  hungry  faces.  Shuddering,  the  old  man 
turned  back  the  shroud.  He  looked  at  the  kneeling  children, 
who  had  at  last  noticed  him.  They  shook  with  cold  ;  the 
skin  around  their  temples  was  half-transparent  ;  their  eyes 
seemed  phosphoric  in  the  twilight. 

"  Did  you  bring  us  some  bread  ?  "  said  little  Mora. 

The  whole  hideous  truth  —  which  he  had  held  away, 
afraid  to  think  of  it  —  came  like  a  blow  upon  the  old  man's 
heart.  Faint  and  staggering,  he  hastened  to  the  nearest 
store,  —  scandalizing  old  Mrs.  Strong,  who  saw  him  issue 
from  the  door,  and  told  all  her  neighbours,  for  twenty-four 
hours,  how  Deacon  Stiles,  of  Columbia,  had  been  up  drink- 
ing with  that  lazy  fellow,  Spalding. 

He  bought  some  food,  begged  some  firewood,  caught  the 
first  woman  he  knew  by  the  arm,  and  dragged  her  with  him  ; 
and  when  the  widowed  soldier,  haggard  and  heavy-eyed, 
opened  his  door  with  his  armfull  of  ship-yard  chips,  he  found 
a  fire  blazing  on  the  hearth,  a  pot  simmering  over  it,  the 
pale-faced  children  nestling  in  its  blaze,  and  the  Deacon 
doling  out  to  them  very  small  mouthfuls  of  very  dry  bread, 
bidding  them  be  careful  to  eat  slow,  and  "  masticate  thor- 
oughly," —  a  direction  which  resulted  mainly  in  opening 
their  sunken  eyes  till  they  looked  like  four  dwarf  spectres. 

A  few  questions  identified  the  present  helper  with  the 
friend  of  the  snowy  night.  Little  Mora,  indeed,  had  whis- 
pered twenty  times  that  it  was  he.  A  few  words  explained 
the  misery  of  the  Englishman.  The  sale  of  the  shirts  for 


CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT.      495 

«i 

their  cost ;  the  necessity  of  paying  their  rent  with  John's 
earnings,  —  for  while  the  wife  was  sick  they  could  not  move ; 
the  last  disappointment  at  Reuben  Small's  ;  the  short  and 
shorter  allowance  of  food,  dwindling  to  nothing  ;  his  con- 
stant attendance  for  nearly  forty-eight  hours  by  the  triple 
deathbed,  which  had  taken  away  even  the  fragment  of  a 
meal  and  the  semblance  of  a  fire,  —  these  things  were  soon 
told. 

As  the  husband  and  father  closed  his  melancholy  tale,  he 
rose,  went  to  the  drawer,  and  brought  to  the  Deacon  the 
remnant  of  flannel,  and  the  price  of  what  he  had  used,  telling 
him  what  it  was.  The  old  man  sprang  from  his  chair,  up- 
setting the  table,  with  the  pitcher  of  milk  and  the  loaf  of 
bread,  and  dropping  from  his  lap  the  morsels  he  had  been 
cutting  with  his  jack-knife. 

"  Great  God  !  and  you  have  been  starving  with  this  money 
in  the  house  !  " 

"  It  was  not  mine,"  said  the  soldier,  quietly. 

The  next  morning,  the  comfortable  little  one-horse  wagon 
owned  by  Mr.  Small  was  floundering  on  its  way  to  Fulton, 
every  mud-hole  bringing  a  malediction  half-way  up  Reuben's 
throat.  He  wished  the  Common  Council,  and  Deacon  Stiles, 
and  all  folks  who  were  fools  enough  to  starve,  just  where 
they  belonged.  When  he  got  to  the  turnpike,  his  soul  grew 
smoother,  but  presently  came  the  locomotive,  that  demon 
to  the  eyes  of  horses,  and  the  unhappy  man  was  forced  to 
scramble  out  into  the  mire,  and  wrestle  with  his  terrified 
beast,  until,  from  hip  to  ankle,  he  was  a  real-estate  owner  in 
"  that  detestable  town  of  Fulton."  In  what  state  of  mind, 
therefore,  he  drew  near  the  end  of  his  journey,  may  be  im- 
agined. 

At  length,  they  reached  the  point  where  the  Deacon  had 
told  them  to  stop.  The  horse  was  hitched,  the  hill  climbed, 
the  house  recognized  by  the  black  crape  on  the  latch,  the 
latch  lifted,  and  Reuben  stood  in  that  dwelling  which  might 


496      CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT. 

never  have  been  visited  by  death,  had  he  but  asked  a  few 
kind  questions  of  the  man  whose  wife  was  a  seamstress,  or 
been  willing  to  take  his  neighbour's  assurance  that  a  poor  man 
might  be  trusted,  —  an  assurance  he  would  have  taken  in  a 
moment,  had  a  country  merchant  been  the  customer. 

On  the  bed,  the  only  resting-place,  were  the  two  coffins  ; 
from  the  one,  the  wasted  features  of  mother  and  babe,  from 
the  other,  the  sunken  eyes  of  little  Kate,  spoke  of  woes  that 
few  know  on  earth.  The  other  children,  decently  clad,  but 
still  shrunk  and  pinched  from  the  cold  and  famine  they  had 
gone  through,  sat  upon  a  bench  by  the  bedside.  The  father 
had  gone  for  the  clergyman. 

Reuben,  whose  heart  was  a  kind  one,  felt  strangely 
troubled,  as  he  looked  upon  the  reality  of  starvation,  —  a 
thing,  as  he  had  always  thought  and  said,  unknown  in  Cin- 
cinnati, where  all  is  so  abundant  and  so  cheap.*  He  turned 
to  the  Deacon,  and  asked  the  particulars  of  the  scene  he 
witnessed. 

"  Father,"  said  the  old  man,  "  soldier  ;  man  of  property  ; 
ruined  ;  no  work  ;  knew  nobody  ;  proud  ;  honest ;  would  n't 
ask,  sooner  die." 

"  A  soldier  ?  "  said  Reuben.     "  Did  I  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  Be  in  presently  " ;  and  something  like  the  usual  silent 
laugh  shook  the  Deacon's  breast.  Then  he  went  on,  "  Wife 
sewed  ;  boy  in  bagging-factory ;  never  ran  in  debt ;  no 
debts,  no  debts ;  wife  sick  ;  little  girl  sick,  too ;  father 
sewed"  —  Reuben  grew  uneasy  —  "all  day,  all  night; 
cooked  ;  nursed  ;  sewed.  Was  cheated, —  old  Stump,  clothes- 
man,  you  know  him,  —  cheated  out  of  all  his  work  and  her 
work  on  seven  dozen  red  flannel  shirts."  As  the  Deacon 

*  Lest  our  readers  should  think  with  him,  we  would  say,  that  one 
case,  at  least,  has  occurred  in  Cincinnati  this  year,  in  which  both 
parents  starved  to  death  ;  they  were  English,  and  left  several  very  fine 
children.  Our  story  is,  in  all  its  features,  drawn  from  facts  within  our 
own  knowledge. 


CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT.      497 

grew  warmer,  he  spoke  louder  and  more  like  other  men. 
"  Yes,  Sir,"  and  he  opened  his  eyes  on  the  Main  Street  deal- 
er, whose  gaze  was  now  on  the  still  coffins,  now  on  the  hol- 
low-cheeked children,  "  the  making  of  seven  dozen  red 
flannel  shirts  were  they  cheated  out  of."  The  red  of  the 
flannel  seemed  reflected  in  the  cheeks  of  Reuben.  "  Then 
they  began  to  starve,"  continued  the  speaker ;  "  the  sick  felt 
it  most ;  they  sold  all  to  the  bed,  that  portrait  of  Wellington, 
that  sword,  which  this  man  had  used  under  the  eye  of  Wel- 
lington. More  work  was  offered  ;  a  rare  material  was  need- 
ed ;  the  only  man, —  hear  me,  Reuben,"  —  for  Reuben  had 
risen  and  gone  to  the  window,  —  "  the  only  man  who  had 
that  material  would  not  trust  him,  though  he  offered  the  best 
references." 

"  Cruel  wretch,"  cried  Mrs.  Small. 

"  Yes,  cruel,"  said  her  uncle,  "  through  his  thoughtless- 
ness; through  his  theory  that  charity  was  not  to  be  given  by 
trusting,  by  loaning,  in  the  way  of  business,  at  the  counting- 
house." 

"  And  did  they  starve  ?  "  cried  Reuben,  turning,  with  tears 
running  down  his  cheeks,  after  a  fashion  that  made  his  wife 
admire  him  more  than  ever.  "  Did  they  indeed  starve  ?  " 

"  They  had  money  in  the  house,"  continued  the  Deacon, 
"  but  it  was  not  theirs  ;  they  would  not  use  it.  They  lived 
on  corn-meal  ;  they  picked  up  bones  and  boiled  them.  But 
starving  on  such  things  dried  up  the  mother's  milk ;  the  child 
died  ;  the  mother's  heart  sank,  broke  ;  she  could  eat  nothing 
they  could  buy  with  the  few  cents  they  earned  now  and 
then,  —  her  stomach  rejected  it;  she  died;  the  little  girl, 
with  the  quinsy,  had  no  medicine,  no  food,  no  warmth,  no 
mother,  and  she  died,  too.  You  may  say  yourself,  Reuben, 
if  they  starved  or  not." 

"  And  I  am  their  murderer,"  cried  the  conscience-stricken 
man,  pressing  his  hot  head  against  the  wall,  as  if  to  crush 
the  thought  that  haunted  him. 
42* 


498      CHARITY  IN  THE  COUNTING-HOUSE  AND  OUT  OF  IT. 

"  No,  Reuben,"  said  the  old  man,  kindly,  "  you  are  not 
their  murderer ;  but  neither  are  you  what  you  might  have 
been,  —  their  saviour.  God  put  it  in  your  power  to  save 
them,  but  you  did  not  dream  that  a  counting-room,  that 
cloth-selling,  might  be  made  the  field  and  the  means  of  such 
wonders.  You  had  not  learned  that  the  best  sphere  of  char- 
ity is  our  daily  walk  in  life." 

Just  then,  the  father  and  the  minister  came  in  ;  the  neigh- 
bours gathered  ;  the  service  proceeded ;  the  broken-hearted 
family  gathered  around  the  coffins,  and  gave  the  last  look. 
But  their  hearts,  much  as  they  suffered,  did  not  suffer  as 
Reuben's  did  that  day,  when  the  clods  fell  on  the  victims  of 
want,  for  their  consciences  were  unclouded. 


LIFE  IN   CINCINNATI  IN   1840. 


FEW  of  us  know  how  our  neighbours  live ;  few  of  us  ask 
even  what  are  the  daily  doings  of  those  about  us ;  and  yet 
to  learn  more  of  the  strange  world  in  whose  midst  we  walk 
is,  perhaps,  the  surest  way  by  which  to  put  off  prejudice  and 
error,  and  acquire  in  their  stead  liberality  and  wisdom. 

To  present  true  portraits  of  some  of  the  many  varieties  of 
life  which  now,  at  this  hour,  have  their  being  in  this  city,  is 
my  object ;  and  every  portrait  is  from  life. 

FIRST  SCENE. 

A  room  twelve  by  eight,  with  a  window  of  four  panes  of 
glass,  and  a  chimney-place  five  feet  by  three ;  a  bed  is  in 
the  room,  a  table  having  three  legs,  and  an  empty  candle- 
box,  set  upon  the  end  to  serve  as  a  seat ;  no  chairs ;  in  one 
corner  three  sticks  of  wood.  In  the  bed  and  among  the 
clothes  upon  it  —  which  consist  of  blankets,  coats,  petticoats, 
pantaloons,  and  ragged  quilts  —  are  a  mother,  her  son  of 
sixteen,  her  daughter  of  fourteen,  and  three  younger  chil- 
dren. All  are  asleep  but  the  mother,  though  the  hour  is 
half  past  nine,  A.  M.  The  mother  lies  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  three  sticks  of  wood  ;  presently  she  shakes  the  oldest 
boy  by  the  shoulder,  ajad  says,  "  Bill,  I  say,  when  did  the 
Council  tell  you  they  'd  give  us  some  more  wood  ?  "  "  Next 
week,  I  telled  yer  last  night.  Let  me  sleep."  So  he  drops 


500  LIFE    IN    CINCINNATI    IN    1840. 

away  again  into  slumber,  while  the  mother,  with  many  a  deep- 
drawn  breath,  makes  her  calculations  for  fuel  during  four 
days,  her  capital  being  three  sticks.  Her  financiering  thoughts 
terminate,  where  so  many  do,  in  concluding  to  borrow. 
Having  settled  this,  she  gets  up,  puts  on  her  outer  clothes 
(the  under  ones  are  never  taken  off  except  to  wash,  at  rare 
intervals),  and  proceeds  to  fish  out  the  smaller  children, 
whose  faces  she  rubs  with  a  damp  crash  towel  till  all  are 
red  and  roaring.  Sally  and  Bill,  much  relieved  by  the  ab- 
sence of  the  juniors,  stretch  themselves  and  prepare  for  a 
new  draught  of  oblivion  ;  while  the  mother  makes  ready  her 
thick  coffee,  and  puts  a  little  fat  into  the  frying-pan  to  melt 
before  the  one  stick  which  she  has  kindled  at  the  end,  while 
she  mixes  the  unleavened  flour  and  water  which  are  to  sup- 
ply their  staff  of  life. 

At  first  glancing  into  this  room,  one  thinks  it  the  home  of 
vice,  the  abode  of  intemperance,  licentiousness,  idleness,  and 
probably  dishonesty.  The  glance  is  deceptive.  The  mother 
is  honest,  industrious,  and  religious  ;  but  without  work  and 
without  tact.  Moreover,  she  was  raised  in  a  Slave  State, 
and  learned  inefficiency  from  her  sugar-trough  cradle.  The 
eldest  boy  is  in  a  bad  way,  it  is  true  ;  for,  being  out  of  work, 
he  has  fallen  into  the  company  of  boys  whose  parents  are 
bad,  and  is  learning  evil  rapidly.  He  and  his  sister  sleep 
so  late  this  morning  because  they  were  up  by  turns  through 
the  night  with  a  neighbour's  child ;  however,  they  rarely 
rise  before  nine,  having  no  work,  and  animal  warmth  being 
cheaper  than  fuel.  The  sister  is  by  nature  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  girls  in  the  city, —  modest,  intelligent,  full  of  feel- 
ing ;  but  slatternly,  careless,  and  inefficient. 

The  father  of  this  family  has  gone  to  that  great  receptacle 
of  husbands  and  sons,  known  by  the  somewhat  vague  name 
of  "  down  the  river."  Nothing  has  been  heard  from  him 
for  eight  months.  This  is  probably,  then,  one  of  the  desert- 
ed families.  The  mother  goes  out  to  wash  ;  the  elder  daugh- 


LIFE    IN    CINCINNATI    IN    1840.  501 

ter  takes  care  of  the  younger  children,  one  of  whom  is  a 
cripple  ;  the  elder  son  works  in  brick-yards,  tobacconists' 
shops,  printing-offices,  and  when  out  of  work  runs  the  streets, 
and  by  intervals  goes  to  school.  For  some  days  all'  have 
been  out  of  work.  They  have  no  money,  no  meat,  no  bread  ; 
a  little  lard,  a  few  pounds  of  flour,  a  "  drawing"  or  two  of 
coffee,  without  milk  or  sugar.  Behold  their  possessions  ! 
Rent  is  due,  also,  and  wood  fast  drawing  to  a  close.  Friends 
on  earth  this  family  has  not ;  but  the  mother  has  still  her 
faith  in  God's  presence,  and  in  his  providence.  The  power, 
the  value,  of  that  faith,  those  of  us  who  dwell  not  under  the 
constant  pressure  of  want  do  not,  cannot,  realize.  To  that 
poor  woman  God  is  no  abstraction,  but  a  living  father  ;  he  is 
not  among  the  stars,  but  by  her  bedside.  When  the  hour  of 
great  need,  of  hopeless  need  almost,  comes,  her  Bible  and 
Methodist  hymn-book  have  a  Divine  power  in  them,  and  her 
last  crust  becomes,  like  the  five  loaves  in  the  desert  place, 
enough  for  a  multitude. 

But  want  of  food  is  not  so  hard  to  bear  as  what  follows,  — 
the  temptation  to  forget  want  in  whiskey  ;  the  temptation  to 
supply  want  by  dishonesty,  by  what  many  tongues  suggest, 
—  the  prostitution  of  that  young  girl.  It  is  when  we  see  the 
immense  "  purchase  "  which  Satan  has  whereby  to  move 
such  hearts,  and  look  at  the  frequency  with  which  he  moves 
our  own,  that  we  may  learn  tolerance  for  the  vices  of  the 
poor.  Let  a  man  or  woman  fall  down  drunk  in  the  street, 
or  be  caught  in  a  petty  theft,  lo  !  the  refined  pass  by  in  dis- 
gust and  contempt ;  the  worldly  with  a  sneer ;  the  vulgar 
stop  and  look  on  with  a  laugh.  The  pity  without  condemna- 
tion, without  contempt,  without  derision,  —  such  as  becomes 
a  Christian,  —  we  seldom  witness. 

SECOND  SCENE. 

A  room  twenty-three  by  eighteen  ;  twelve  feet  high  ;  win- 
dows reaching  to  the  floor  ;  splendid  curtains.  Sofas  of 


502  LIFE    IN   CINCINNATI    IN    1840. 

rosewood  ;  pier-tables  ;  mirrors  ;  pictures  ;  hanging  and 
mantel  lamps  ;  seats  of  various  kinds  worked  in  worsted  ; 
a  carpet  into  which  the  foot  sinks  half-way  to  the  ankle.  It 
is  the  edge  of  evening.  Two  old  ladies  sit,  looking  at  the 
fire,  one  keeping  time  to  an  imaginary  band  of  music  with 
her  foot.  One  young  lady,  near  the  window,  is  engaged  in 
running  her  eyes  over  Marryatt's  "  Diary."  From  an  ad- 
joining room  is  heard  that  peculiar  kind  of  uproar  which 
commences  toward  dusk  in  a  dinner  party.  A  young  man 
enters  and  throws  himself  full  length  on  a  sofa. 

The  door-bell  rings  ;  servant  enters  and  says  there  is  a 
woman  wishing  to  see  Mrs.  A.,  —  the  same  woman  who 
called  this  morning.  "Tell  her  to  call  to-morrow  morning," 
says  Mrs.  A.  "  Why  not  see  her  to-night,  aunt  ?  "  says  the 
young  man.  "  Why,  my  dear  John,"  cries  the  second  old 
lady  (Mrs.  B.),  "don't  you  know  how  many  houses  have 
been  robbed  of  their  cloaks  only  just  last  week,  and  within  a 
month  ?  To  be  sure,  the  woman  must  come  by  daylight, 
and  not  in  this  kind  of  thievery  way  at  midnight."  John 
groans,  gets  up,  and  goes  into  the  entry.  He  asks  the  poor 
woman  her  errand  :  she  is  after  some  work  promised  last 
week.  John  tells  his  aunt.  "  Say  she  may  call  day  after 
to-morrow  ;  it  is  n't  cut  out  yet,"  is  the  reply,  which  John 
transmits.  The  woman  turns,  goes  to  the  door,  hesitates, 
bites  her  lip,  swallows  her  heart  once  or  twice,  opens  the 
door,  stops  again,  and  turns  round,  looking  downward  so  as 
to  hide  her  face,  though  it  is  too  dark  to  see  color  or  feature. 
John  says  to  himself,  "  Well,  I  do  believe  she  's  a  thief, 
after  all,"  and  watches  her  narrowly.  She  asks,  after 
another  gulp  or  two,  if  she  can  have  the  half-dollar  yet  due 
her.  John,  fearing  a  trick,  remains  in  the  entry,  and  calls 
to  his  aunt.  The  reply  is  heard  indistinctly,  mingled  with 
renewed  roars  of  laughter  from  the  dining-room.  "  Tell 
Mrs.  Page,"  is  the  reply,  "call  —  pay  her  —  own  leisure." 
Mrs.  Page  turns  ;  John  draws  out  a  half-dollar,  and,  putting 


LIFE    IN    CINCINNATI    IN    1840.  503 

it  into  her  hand,  asks  her  place  of  residence.  She  tells  him, 
and  departs.  John  walks  once  or  twice  through  the  entry, 
and  then  returns  to  his  sofa.  "  Do  you  know  that  woman, 
aunt  ?  "  "  O,  no  ;  she  's  a  poor  thing.  I  give  her  work  to 
keep  her  from  pestering  me  ;  but  it  don't  do."  "  She  is  not 
content  with  work,"  says  John,  "  but  wants  money  !  —  Most 
unreasonable  !  "  Mrs.  A.  does  not  understand,  and  yawns. 
The  young  lady  rubs  her  eyes,  and  says,  "  Marryatt  's  a 
right  fine  fellow."  Mrs.  B.  proceeds  to  remark  how  wicked 
it  is  to  beg,  instead  of  working  ;  and  how  strange  it  is  that 
the  benevolent  societies  do  not  provide  for  the  poor  ;  and  how 
wonderful  it  is  poverty  should  be  allowed.  John  begins  to 
say  something  about  "  fellow-men,  and  fellow-Christians," 
but  his  aunt  cuts  him  short  by  asserting  that  Mrs.  Page  is 
neither  man  nor  Christian.  "  Why  not  Christian  ?  "  cries 
John.  "  Because  she  told  me  herself  she  had  never  been 
to  church  for  time  immemorial."  "  Did  she  say  why  ?  " 
"  O,  as  usual,  something  about  clothes  ;  just  an  excuse,  of 
course.  Every  body  knows  a  true,  humble  Christian  don't 
mind  the  like  of  clothes."  The  dinner  party  breaks  up,  — 
eight  men,  in  the  four  hours,  having  consumed  as  much  (in 
cost)  as  would  support  a  "  poor  family"  of  three  or  four,  the 
year  round. 

THIRD  SCENE. 

A  small  room  in  the  suburbs,  shed  roof,  no  plastering  on 
the  walls.  In  the  closet  a  few  plates  and  saucers  neatly  ar- 
ranged, a  bed  smooth  and  orderly,  a  fire  of  saw-dust.  On 
some  chunks  of  wood  sit  a  man  and  two  little  girls  of  eight 
and  ten,  with  flaxen  hair  and  blue  eyes,  looking  up  into  their 
father's  dim-seen  face.  He  is  telling  them  the  story  of 
Joseph.  The  door  opens  and  Mrs.  Page  enters,  puts  down 
her  basket,  kisses  her  children,  who  jump  up  to  meet  her, 
turns  down  the  bed-clothes  to  look  at  the  sleeping  baby,  and 
then  sits  down  by  the  fire.  "  No  work,  Edward,"  she  says, 


501  LIFE    IN    CINCINNATI    IN    1840. 

sighing.  "  But  you  have  the  pay  for  the  last  ?  "  "  I  have 
some  bread,  and  some  sugar,  and  your  medicines  ;  and  paid 
up  at  the  apothecary's."  "  Then  we  will  thank  God,  and  go 
to  bed,  and  to-morrow  pray  for  our  daily  bread  again."  An 
hour  is  spent  in  talk  and  prayer,  and  all  go  to  bed. 

FOURTH  SCENE. 

Mrs.  Page's  house,  9  A.M.  All  clean  and  in  order; 
breakfast  over,  floor  scrubbed  ;  Mrs.  P.  gone  to  get  work,  if 
possible.  John  enters  ;  hesitates ;  looks  round.  "  Is  this 
Mrs.  Page's  house  ?  "  "  It  is."  Asks  for  her.  Is  invited 
to  sit  down.  Looks  upon  Mr.  P.  as  an  outlaw  and  ruffian, 
and  prefers  to  stand.  John  inquires  as  to  family,  &c.  The 
two  little  girls  come  and  take  his  hand  at  their  father's  bid- 
ding, John  rather  shrinking,  as  from  young  scorpions.  Mr. 
Page  tells  his  story.  He  was  a  carpenter  ;  he  hurt  himself 
by  a  fall,  and  has  been  sick  all  winter.  His  wife  has  sup- 
ported him.  Has  been  visited  by  few  ;  helped  only  by  poor 
neighbours.  One  who  visited  them,  "  an  excellent  Christian 
woman  she  was,  too,"  he  said,  had  talked  hard  to  his  wife 
for  ironing  some  clothes  on  Sunday  morning  for  his  children 
to  go  to  Sunday  school  in,  though  she  was  up  till  ten  the 
night  before  working;  it  had  dispirited  his  wife  a  great  deal. 
"  Does  your  wife  go  to  church?  "  asks  John.  "  She  has  not 
had  a  shoe  of  her  own  for  months,"  is  the  answer  ;  "  when 
she  goes  out  she  borrows  a  neighbour's,  who  can't  lend  them 
of  a  Sunday."  John  returns  to  his  aunt's  with  some  new 
views  of  life. 

FIFTH  SCENE. 

Front  Street,  of  a  sunny  day  early  in  January.  A  good- 
looking  young  man  is  going  from  store  to  store  asking  for 
work.  Some  have  none  ;  some  ask  his  politics,  and  tell  him 
he  's  served  right  for  voting  for  Van  Buren  ;  some  ask  his 
name,  condition,  birthplace,  &c.  He  is  named  John  Scott ; 


LIFE    IN    CINCINNATI    IN    1840.  505 

came  from  Cuyahoga  County  ;  has  a  mother  and  sister 
mainly  dependent  on  him  ;  worked  all  the  summer  and  fall 
on  one  of  the  public  works,  and  lost  half  his  wages  through 
some  dispute  between  the  company  and  contractor  ;  has 
no  home  in  Cincinnati,  but  puts  up  at  D.'s  on  Water  Street, 
when  he  can  pay,  and  sometimes  sleeps  on  the  floor  by  the 
stove  when  penniless.  Has  no  friend  in  the  city,  and  no 
means  of  leaving  it. 

Finding  no  work,  John  leans  against  a  post,  and  suns  him- 
self, and  thinks  of  his  poor  mother's  disappointment  at  re- 
ceiving no  letter  from  him.  He  fears  to  write,  for  he  has 
no  money  to  send,  and  is  conscious  of  having  misspent  what 
little  he  has  earned.  His  heart  sinks,  his  blood  grows  bitter 
and  savage  ;  he  would  like  to  drown  thought  in  drink,  quar- 
rel, any  thing.  A  comrade  touches  him  on  the  shoulder,  — 
"  Liquor,  John  ?  "  With  a  mad  alacrity  he  joins  the  drink- 
ers. Had  the  good  Whig  who  rejected  him  for  his  vote  em- 
ployed him,  he  might  have  saved  a  soul  alive. 

SIXTH  SCENE. 

A  cold,  snowy  afternoon,  late  in  January.  Dusk  is  draw- 
ing near.  Men  muffled  up  to  the  chin  step  along  quickly, 
and  remark  through  their  coat-collars  that  it 's  quite  a  snow- 
storm ;  then  drive  on  again,  bending  against  the  cold  wind, 
with  visions  of  hot  rolls  and  buttered  toast,  of  a  cosy  evening 
by  the  fireside,  and  a  soft  warm  bed,  in  their  minds.  One 
of  them  is  stopped  by  a  man  whose  legs  move  under  him  as 
he  stands,  as  if  all  his  joints  were  of  the  ball-and-socket 
make  ;  a  large  rent  in  the  leg  of  his  pantaloons  reveals  no 
under  garment  ;  another  in  the  seat  fails  to  discover  a  shirt ; 
his  teeth  chatter ;  his  whole  frame  quivers  as  in  an  ague  ; 
his  fingers  stand  out  like  icicles.  "  Stranger,"  he  says, 
"  where  can  I  get  warm  ?  "  "  Go  home,  go  home,  my  good 
fellow,"  answers  the  other  with  mingled  nausea  and  pity.  "  I 
have  no  home,"  growls  John  Scott ;  "  I  'm  cold  ;  I  've  slept 

VOL.  i.  43 


506  LIFE    IN    CINCINNATI    IN    1840. 

out  two  nights  ;  two  nights  hy  the  wntch,  stranger.  I  'm 
cold,  I  tell  you  ;  I  have  not  seen  a  fire  for  eight  hours.  As 
God  made  you,  stranger,  where  can  I  get  warm  ?  "  Two 
more  gentlemen  come  up,  stop,  and  one  asks  what  the  mat- 
ter is.  "  O,  the  man  's  only  drunk !  "  cries  his  friend. 
"  Come  along,  or  the  muffins  will  be  burnt."  They  pass  on. 
John  Scott  looks  after  them,  and  mutters  something  about 
their  being  burnt  one  day.  While  his  eyes  are  wandering, 
the  person  first  addressed,  feeling  himself  unable  to  do  any 
thing,  pushes  for  home.  John,  muttering  curses,  and  prayers, 
and  promises  of  amendment,  staggers  up  the  street. 

Soon  after  dark  he  was  picked  up  from  the  middle  of  the 
street  (where  two  or  three  persons  had  poked  him  with  their 
canes  to  see  what  the  matter  was,  and  concluded  he  was 
"  only  drunk  "),  and  taken  to  a  tavern,  by  a  young,  chicken- 
hearted  clerk,  who  was  such  an  enemy  to  temperance  as  to 
pity  an  intemperate  man. 

SEVENTH  SCENE. 

A  small,  dark  room,  unplastered  ;  the  crevices  of  the 
walls  pasted  over  with  leaves  from  the  Bible.  A  small  fire 
of  pine  boards  (it  is  late  in  February).  Two  men  sit  by  a 
table  playing  some  game  of  chance  by  the  light  of  a  candle 
stuck  in  a  knot-hole.  One  is  John  Scott,  the  other  Mike 
Simmons.  Mike  was  once  a  boatman,  hale  and  handsome  ; 
lie  is  still  handsome,  but  dying  of  consumption.  He  was 
once  honest,  sober,  industrious  ;  he  is  now  a  drunkard,  gam- 
bler, idler,  and  lives  by  stealing  logs  from  the  saw-mills  and 
lumber  from  rafts.  He  keeps  a  child  at  a  pay  school. 

The  door  opens,  and  Mike's  wife  enters,  red  in  the  face, 
and  reeling.  She  places  a  jug  on  the  table,  and  from  a  heap 
of  crockery  and  old  shoes  pulls  out  a  bowl  and  washes  it  in 
the  water  bucket.  Drinking  begins.  Mike  has  a  job  on 
hand,  and  wants  his  wife  out  of  the  way ;  for  even  such 
women  as  she  have  hearts,  and  pity  the  victims  in  whose 


LIFE    IN    CINCINNATI    IN    1840.  507 

midst  they  walk.  The  woman  is  drenched,  and  thrown  into 
the  heap  of  straw,  bedclothes,  and  children  in  the  corner. 
The  children  cry  out,  and  wriggle  from  under  their  mother  ; 
one  squirms  out  of  bed,  and  is  kicked  back  by  the  father. 

Family  matters  settled,  Mike  goes  on  with  his  game. 
John  Scott  is  kept  on  the  verge  of  entire  drunkenness  by  the 
whiskey,  and  prevented  from  going  over  by  well-told  tales  of 
theft,  robbery,  and  bloodshed,  —  exciting  enough  to  rouse 
him  from  complete  lethargy.  About  ten  a  third  man  enters, 
after  a  mysterious  tap  at  the  window.  The  three  draw  to- 
gether and  speak  under  their  breath. 

The  results  of  that  consultation  are  not  yet  evident,  but  at 
such  moments  bold  deeds  of  evil  are  planned.  By  some 
such  deed  John  Scott  may  yet  prove  that,  when  drunk  in  the 
street,  his  case  was  not  that  of  "  only  drunk,"  but  that  of  one 
hanging  between  a  return  to  right  and  destruction.  Even 
now,  breathing  this  tainted  atmosphere  of  whiskey  and  on- 
ions, in  which  the  very  candle  burns  dim,  John  thinks  of  his 
mother !  O,  were  some  friend  by  to  help  the  poor  strug- 
gling wretch  !  There  is  none.  Satan  smiles  at  his  elbow, 
and,  opposite,  Mike  smiles  in  answer, —  little  dreaming  that 
his  dear  friend  and  gossip,  theTempter,  is  exchanging  grins 
with  the  Death  which  is  now  looking  from  his  own  sunken 
and  swimming  eyes. 


THE    LOST    CHILD. 


IT  has  been  said  that  the  morals  of  a  city  depend  very 
much  upon  the  manner  in  which  it  is  laid  out ;  if  irregular, 
and  full  of  alleys,  lanes,  and  courts,  there  will  inevitably  be 
more  of  filth  and  iniquity  therein,  than  if  it  be  open,  regular, 
and  airy.  High  houses  and  narrow  passage-ways  seem  to 
breed  vicious  habits,  as  dark  crevices  do  foul  insects  ;  at 
any  rate,  they  give  shelter  and  shade.  The  ideal  of  a  city 
would  be  realized  when  every  passage-way  was  made  broad 
and  easy  of  access.  It  is  an  error,  therefore,  to  build  a 
town  in  squares,  for  the  interiors  of  the  squares  become 
always,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  sinks. 

The  mistake  in  the  plan  of  Cincinnati,  then,  was,  that  the 
main  squares  are  not  traversed  by  large  passage-ways ;  and 
many,  that  seem  without  noble  and  fine,  are  within  foul  and 
terrible  to  look  upon.  Under  the  very  windows  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  comfortable  dwelling-houses  of  our  city  are 
some  of  the  most  miserable  hovels  in  existence,  unnoticed, 
because  in  the  interior  of  a  square. 

In  the  door-way  of  an  old  wooden  house,  which  stands, 
unseen  by  the  passer-by  in  the  street,  in  the  midst  of  one  of 
the  fine  squares  of  Cincinnati,  a  white  woman,  of  some 
thirty  years  old,  sat  looking  stupidly  at  the  golden  sky  of  the 
west.  The  beauty  of  God's  heaven  soothed  and  interested 
her,  though  she  knew  not  what  influence  it  was  that  calmed 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  509 

her  spirit.  The  house  was  miserably  dilapidated  ;  not  a 
window  remained  whole  ;  the  weather-boarding  was  broken, 
and  the  chimney  in  ruins.  Close  to  the  feet  of  the  sitting 
woman,  the  hogs  were  quarrelling  for  some  remnants  of  her 
last  meal  ;  and  upon  the  ash-heap  by  her  side,  a  little  girl, 
about  four  years  old,  was  playing  with  a  yellow,  scabby  dog. 
Within,  a  straw-bed  lay  in  a  corner,  and  a  block  of  wood 
from  some  lumber-yard  contrasted  strangely  with  a  bureau 
veneered  with  showy  mahogany. 

"  Mother,"  cried  out  a  ragged  and  dirt-streaked  boy,  who 
came  up  kicking  his  furless  fur  cap  before  him, — "John 
ain't  nowhere." 

"  He  is,"  said  the  woman,  without  moving  her  eyes  from 
the  sky ;  "  and  if  you  don't  fetch  him  in  quick,  mind  your- 
self." 

The  boy  gave  the  dog  one  kick,  that  brought  forth  a  simul- 
taneous howl  from  cur  and  child,  and  strolled  out  into  the 
street  again. 

The  twilight  faded  ;  the  stars  looked  down  upon  the 
seething  city,  and  through  the  stillness  of  evening  the  boat- 
man's song  rose  from  the  sluggish  river,  and  was  listened  to 
by  many  an  ear  far  up  town.  The  lady,  leaning  from  her 
open  window,  heard  it,  and  ceased  fanning  herself  to  catch 
the  hearty  tones ;  the  gentleman,  rocking  in  his  piazza, 
heard  it,  and  his  cigar  went  out  as  his  head  kept  time  with 
the  quick,  full  notes  ;  the  servant-girl  caught  the  sound,  and 
stood,  cup  and  towel  in  hand,  drinking  in  what  reminded  her 
of  one  who  was  braving  the  fever  in  the  Southwest ;  the 
poor  woman  sitting  on  the  threshold  of  that  old  frame-house 
heard  that  song  also,  and  years  were  annihilated  by  it,  and 
she  laid  her  head  down  upon  her  greasy  apron,  and  cried 
as  the  fallen  alone  ever  do.  While  the  fit  was  still  on  her, 
the  boy  whom  she  had  sent  out  came  back  again,  sullen  and 
fierce.  "  He  ain't  to  be  had,"  said  he. 
43* 


510  THE    LOST    CHILD. 

"  Who  ?  John  ?  Where  ain't  he  ?  Who  'vc  you  seen  ? 
What  've  you  done  ?  Answer  me,  Bill,  —  is  John  lost  ?  " 

"  For  all  I  know,"  said  the  boy. 

The  woman  caught  up  her  little  girl,  threw  her,  scream- 
ing, into  an  inner  room,  cast  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and, 
seizing  her  sullen  boy  by  the  arm,  walked  out  into  Vine 
Street. 

"  Now  where  did  you  see  him  last,  Bill  ? "  she  said, 
pausing  on  the  sidewalk. 

"  Down  there,"  he  growled,  pointing  to  the  opposite 
square,  which  was  nearly  vacant. 

Letting  go  of  her  son's  arm,  the  woman  began  her  search 
among  the  lumber-piles  where  the  lost  child  had  been  last 
seen  ;  while  Bill  shuffled  along  to  a  coffee-house  close  by, 
where  a  store-breaker  was  just  then  consulting  with  his  com- 
panions, and  a  young  carpenter,  fresh  from  New  Hampshire, 
was  trying  to  smile  as  he  drank  his  dose  of  whiskey  and 
water  with  a  new  bosom  friend. 

The  clock  of  the  Second  Church  struck  eight ;  the  groups 
about  the  corners  were  thinner;  the  laugh  and  shout  and 
oath  were  less  frequent ;  more  lights  were  seen  in  upper 
windows;  the  active  and  faithful  were  going  to  their  beds. 
More  than  one  man,  during  the  evening,  had  swung  along  to 
that  old  house  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  had  called  for 
"Bet"  and  "Betsey"  and  "Bet  Fowler,"  and,  having  no 
answer,  had  sworn  and  slammed  the  door,  and  swung  away 
again.  Now  and  then  the  little  girl  in  the  inner  room  had 

o  c 

wakened,  and  whimpered  a  little,  and  sunk  to  sleep  again  ; 
and  once  during  the  hour  preceding  eight,  Bill  had  crept  in 
silently,  and  placed  something  in,  or  taken  something  from, 
a  drawer  of  the  bureau.  The  clock  of  the  Second  Church 
struck  eight,  and  people  in  Fourth  Street,  having  counted  the 
strokes,  were  just  about  to  talk  again,  when  the  bell  of  the 
public  cryer  stopped  all  tongues  :  —  "A  child  found," 
shouted  that  functionary,  "  five  years  old  ;  blue  eyes,  one 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  511 

black  and  blue  ;  red  hair  ;  very  dirty  ;  had  on,  when  found, 
calico  clothes  of  no  great  value."  Ding  —  ding.  "Stop," 
said  a  woman,  seizing  his  arm  ;  "  it 's  my  child  ;  where  is 
he  ?  "  "  He  !  who  said  it  was  a  '  he  '  ? "  answered  the 
bellman.  "  Man,"  said  the  mother,  griping  the  arm  of  the 
officer  so  that  he  felt  his  pleasantry  ooze  out  of  his  fingers' 
ends,  "  tell  me  where  he  is."  He  hesitated.  "  For 
shame  !  "  cried  the  spectators.  "  Well,  come  along,  then," 
said  he,  "  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  beauty."  She  said  no 
word,  but  followed  him  to  a  house  from  which  she  could 
look  down  upon  her  own  miserable  home  ;  there  was  her 
lost  boy,  —  not  now  what  he  had  been,  but  washed  and 
clothed  with  clean  and  decent,  though  over-large  clothes. 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  a  lady,  whose  eye  showed  her 
sympathy,  "  whereabouts  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  Down  there,"  said  the  mother,  pointing,  and  answering 
with  a  defiant  and  hard  manner. 

"  Whom  shall  I  ask  for  ?  "  inquired  the  lady. 

"  I  would  n't  go  and  ask  for  no  one,"  replied  the  other, 
bitterly. 

"  But,"  said  the  lady,  after  a  pause,  "  I  want  to  help  you  ; 
you  look  poor." 

"  I  am  poor,  but  no  beggar,"  was  the  reply  ;  and  the 
woman  turned  and  walked  away,  leaving  her  benefactor  in 
a  state  of  mingled  surprise  and  horror. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  said  that  lady,  the  next  morning  at  break- 
fast, "  that  so  much  misery  exists  close  by  us  as  that  wom- 
an's looks  would  show  ?  " 

"  It's  a  melancholy  fact,"  said  her  husband. 

"  And  what  can  be  done  for  her  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  so  far  as  I  can  see,"  and  he  opened  the  Ga- 
zette to  learn  if  any  new  books  were  advertised. 

That  day  the  lady  went  through  the  square  to  which  the 
woman  had  pointed  the  night  before,  but  saw  nothing  of  her 
or  her  boy.  She  saw  enough,  however,  to  make  her  flesh 


512  THE    LOST   CHILD. 

creep,  and  could  not  rest  when  she  went  home  till  she  had 
washed  and  dressed  anew,  —  the  open  air  in  which  she  had 
been  had  seemed  so  thick  with  uncleanliness  to  her.  "  And 
all  this,"  she  said  to  herself  again  and  again,  "  is  right  un- 
der my  windows." 

The  next  morning  was  rainy,  but  in  the  afternoon  it 
cleared  up,  and  putting  on  her  thick  shoes,  and  bracing  her 
courage  to  the  highest,  once  more  this  lady  went  forth  to 
find  the  woman  whose  child  she  had  clothed  two  days  be- 
fore. "  Surely,"  said  she,  "  if  the  mother  could  go  abroad 
at  night  to  find  him  when  lost  from  her,  I  may  venture  by 
daylight  to  seek  those  lost  to  comfort,  joy,  and  I  fear  to  vir- 
tue and  their  Father  in  heaven." 

She  went,  and  not  in  vain  ;  for  she  came  this  time  sudden- 
ly upon  the  mother,  with  the  little  boy  by  her  side  and  a  still 
younger  child  in  her  arms. 

"  I  tried  to  find  you  yesterday." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  saw  you,  and  hid  away." 

"  For  what,  in  mercy's  sake  ?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  want  none  of  your  money." 

"  But  I  may  get  you  work,  and  your  children  places,  if 
you  have  any  older  than  these." 

"  Will  you  walk  in  ?  "  said  the  poor  woman,  opening  her 
door,  which  swung  from  one  hinge.  Her  visitor  shrunk, 
and  hesitated  for  an  instant,  but  choked  down  her  disgust 
and  went  it. 

"  What  may  your  name  be  ?  "  said  the  tenant  of  the 
building,  wiping  ofTthe  block  of  wood,  the  only  seat  in  the 
room. 

"  Mrs.  Ellis  is  my  name,"  said  the  lady. 

"  And  why  do  you  want  to  help  me  ?  " 

"  Because  you  seem  to  need  it." 

"And  so  do  dozens  and  hundreds  that's  innocenter  and 
cleverer  than  I,  Miss." 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  513 

"  Are  there  many  in  want  about  here  ?  " 

"  Many !  That  there  be.  I  wish  you  could  ha'  seen  'em 
crowd  round  one  log  here  last  winter ;  and  that  a  log  that  I 
fished  out  o'  the  river  when  my  petticoats  was  as  stiff  as  a 
board  afore  I  'd  well  got  ashore.  O,  what  a  crowing  there  'd 
be  down  here,  if  that  broad  roof  of  yourn  would  only  burn 
up  some  sharp  night.  But  you  need  n't  be  scared  ;  it  ain't 
you,  Miss,  that  we  hate,  it  's  the  whole  world." 

"  But  why  do  you  hate  the  world  ?  " 

"  Because  I  've  nothing  to  eat." 

"  Do  you  ever  go  to  church?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ellis. 

The  woman  literally  howled  as  she  answered, —  "  Church  ! 
there  's  a  church  !  I  could  throw  a  stone  into  the  window. 
I  used  to  go  there,  but  not  now  ;  I  found  'em  out.  How 
could  I  go  to  church  with  this  on  my  back  ?  When  I  went 
there,  and  dressed  genteel,  and  had  no  rags  and  few  sins  on 
my  shoulders,  the  minister  never  come  near  me  ;  he  never 
knowed  me  in  the  street,  though  him  and  me  met  frequent. 
And  when  the  pinch  come,  and  the  Devil  come,  then  he  gave 
me  to  fire  and  brimstone  because  I  would  n't  starve." 

"  What  caused  your  poverty  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  shudder- 
ing. 

"  I  scare  you,  don't  I  ?  "  said  the  woman.  "  But  don't  be 
scared,  Bet  Fowler  never  hurt  no  one." 

"  Is  your  name  Fowler,  then  ?  " 

"  That  was  my  husband's  name,  when  I  had  one." 

"  And  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  left  me  years  ago.  He  was  a  drunkard,  and  he  left 
me  when  I  did  n't  hardly  know  what  hunger  or  harm 
meant." 

"  And  how  have  you  lived  since  ?  " 

"  Lived  !  I  have  n't  lived  !  When  I  think  of  my  father's 
house,  and  the  stoop  where  I  used  to  sit  and  hark  of  an 
evening  to  the  boatmen  singing; — Fowler  was  a  boatman 
and  followed  the  river  regular,  he  drank  some  when  we 


514  THE    LOST    CHILD. 

married  ;  —  however,  as  I  was  saying,  when  I  think  of  them 
times  it  seems  to  me  I  died  years  ago." 

"  Would  you  tell  me  your  whole  story  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Ellis. 

"  I  hain't  no  story." 

"  But  your  life,  — you  've  had  a  strange  life  ?  " 

"  Strange !  bless  you,  its  the  commonest  life  going. 
Dissipation,  and  want,  and  despair,  and  evil,  —  them  ain't 
strange." 

"  But  tell  me  how  you  came  here,  and  when  your  hus- 
band left  you?  " 

The  unfortunate  woman,  who  had  thus  far  been  standing 
by  the  door,  touched  by  the  voice  and  look  of  interest,  came 
in,  and,  sitting  down  upon  the  straw  bed,  bowed  her  head 
between  her  knees  for  a  moment,  and  then,  lifting  her 
face,  which  had  lost  something  of  its  stupid  and  sullen  look, 
told  her  short  tale. 

Her  husband  had  been  a  river  trader,  clever  and  affec- 
tionate when  sober,  but  given  to  frolicking.  He  had 
brought  his  wife  to  Cincinnati  soon  after  their  marriage,  and 
they  had  lived  quite  comfortably  ;  but  within  two  years  his 
habits  became  worse  than  ever,  and  at  last  he  had  left  her 
to  take  a  boat-load  of  flour  to  Natchez  and  New  Orleans, 
from  which  time  she  had  never  heard  from  him.  After  he 
went,  she  had  lived  for  a  while  on  his  credit,  and  when  that 
was  gone,  had  to  pledge  her  furniture  and  clothing  for  food. 
She  next  tried  work,  but  her  little  boy  was  first  sick,  and 
then  she  was  herself  confined.  Debt  came  in  consequence  ; 
people  shunned  her ;  she  wrote  to  her  father,  and  the  post- 
master sent  back  word  that  he  was  dead.  She  asked  assist- 
ance of  strangers ;  some  gave  food  and  some  gave  money, 
but  all  gave,  she  thought,  in  the  hope  of  getting  rid  of  her. 
She  went  to  the  physicians,  hoping  to  get  a  place  as  nurse. 
She  could  find  no  place,  —  but  one  of  those  whom  she 
visited  marked  her  as  a  creature  fast  verging  to  that  point 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  515 

when  vice  might  seem  virtue.  He  watched  her  ;  helped 
her ;  condoled  with  her ;  abused  the  heartless  world ; 
sneered  at  the  virtue  which  suffered  others  or  one's  self  to 
starve ;  and,  in  the  end,  succeeded  in  his  worse  than  mur- 
derous purpose.  From  that  day  degradation  went  on  rapid- 
ly ;  as  she  said  herself,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  died  then. 

Mrs.  Ellis  listened  with  surprise  to  a  tale  such  as  hundreds 
might  tell,  and  felt  her  blood  curdle  as  the  hitherto  unknown 
terrors  of  poverty  were  opened  to  her.  "  And  all  this  has 
been  going  on  under  my  eyes,"  she  said,  "  and  how  easily 
might  it  have  been  prevented."  But  the  question  now  as  to 
the  woman  before  her  was  not  prevention,  but  cure.  "  Mrs. 
Fowler,"  said  she,  "  you  would  change  if  you  could  ?  " 

The  woman  started  at  the  unaccustomed  title,  and  shook 
her  head  in  bitter  despair.  "  Who  'd  trust  me  ?  "  said  she  ; 
"  I M  be  put  in  jail  in  a  week  on  suspicion,  if  I  quit  my 
trade." 

Her  friendly  visitor  knew  not  what  to  reply,  for  the  whole 
dreadful  gulf  was  beyond  her  vision  ;  but  having  asked  her 
wants,  and  bade  her  be  of  good  cheer,  she  sought  her 
clergyman,  before  whom  she  laid  the  whole  case.  And  to 
him,  strange  to  say,  the  case  was  full  of  new  features  ;  busy 
in  his  parochial  duties,  his  easy  benevolence,  his  theology 
and  botany,  this  good  man  had  gone  on  ignorant  that  such 
instances  of  want  and  despair  and  temptation  were  all  about 
him.  He  said  he  would  inquire  ;  he  hoped  something  might 
be  done ;  he  wished  he  knew  what  to  do ;  he  determined  he 
would  do  something.  So,  taking  his  hat  and  cane,  he  sought 
his  friend  and  adviser,  Deacon  X.  ;  this  gentleman,  having 
heard  the  story,  advised  at  once  that  the  woman  should  be 
sent  into  the  country  with  her  children,  and  thought  he 
might  get  her  a  place  if  she  knew  any  thing  of  dairy  matters. 

Mrs.  Ellis  soon  learned  that,  before  her  marriage,  she  had 
been  used  to  the  care  of  cows,  and  in  a  few  weeks  arrange- 
ments were  made,  and  the  old  frame-house  in  the  centre  of 
the  square  was  tenantless. 


516  THE    LOST    CHILD. 

A  year  has  passed  since  that  fallen  woman  was  placed 
again  upon  the  way  to  truth  and  hope.  Her  careless  and 
lazy  habits,  her  despondency  and  sullen  temper,  are  not 
wholly  gone  yet ;  and  Bill  Fowler  is  the  dread  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. But  still  a  great  step  has  been  taken,  a  great  vic- 
tory won  ;  and  Mrs.  Ellis  often  thanks  God  that  she  found 
that  lost  child  ;  —  for,  but  for  that  child,  she  might  to  this 
day  have  known  nothing  of  the  sin  and  suffering,  of  the 
unknown  and  unspoken  agony,  which  were  "  right  under 
her  eyes,"  and  which  no  one  is  now  more  busily  engaged 
in  relieving  than  she. 


THE    HOLE    IN    MY    POCKET. 


IT  is  now  about  a  year  since  my  wife  said  to  me  one  clay, 
"  Pray,  Mr.  Slackwater,  have  you  that  half-dollar  about  you 
that  I  gave  you  this  morning  ?  "  I  felt  in  my  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  turned  my  purse  inside  out,  but  it  was  all  space, 
which  is  very  different  from  specie.  So  I  said  to  Mrs.  Slack- 
water,  "  I  've  lost  it,  my  dear  ;  positively  there  must  be  a 
hole  in  my  pocket !  "  "I  '11  sew  it  up,"  said  she. 

An  hour  or  two  after,  I  met  Tom  Stebbins.  "How  did 
that  ice-cream  set  ?  "  said  Tom.  "  It  set,"  said  I,  "  like  the 
sun,  gloriously."  And  as  I  spoke,  it  flashed  upon  me  that 
my  missing  half-dollar  had  paid  for  those  ice-creams  ;  how- 
ever, I  held  my  peace,  for  Mrs.  Slackwater  sometimes 
makes  remarks ;  and  even  when  she  assured  me  at  break- 
fast next  morning  that  there  was  no  hole  in  my  pocket, 
what  could  I  do  but  lift  my  brow  and  say,  "  Ah,  is  n't  there  ? 
really  !  " 

Before  a  week  had  gone  by,  my  wife,  who,  like  a  dutiful 
helpmate,  as  she  is,  always  gives  me  her  loose  change  to 
keep,  called  for  a  twenty-five  cent  piece  that  had  been  de- 
posited in  my  sub-treasury  for  safe-keeping.  "  There  is 
a  poor  woman  at  the  door,"  she  said,  "  that  I  've  promised 
it  to  for  certain."  "  Well,  wait  a  moment,"  I  cried  ;  so  I 
pushed  inquiries  first  in  this  direction,  then  in  that,  and  then 
in  the  other,  but  vacancy  returned  a  hollow  groan.  "  On 

VOL.  i.  44 


518  THE    HOLE    IN    MY    POCKET. 

my  soul,"  said  I,  thinking  it  best  to  show  a  bold  front,  "  you 
must  keep  my  pockets  in  better  repair,  Mrs.  Slackwater  ; 
this  piece,  with  I  know  not  how  many  more,  is  lost,  because 
some  corner  or  seam  in  my  plaguy  pocket  is  left  open." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Slackwaler. 

"  Sure  !  ay,  that  I  am.  It  's  gone,  totally  gone  !  "  My 
wife  dismissed  her  promise,  and  then,  in  her  quiet  way, 
asked  me  to  change  my  pantaloons  before  I  went  out,  and, 
to  bar  all  argument,  laid  another  pair  on  my  knees. 

That  evening,  allow  me  to  remark,  gentlemen  of  the  spe- 
cies "  husband,"  I  was  very  loath  to  go  home  to  tea.  I  had 
half  a  mind  to  bore  some  bachelor  friend,  and  when  hunger 
and  habit,  in  their  unassuming  manner,  one  on  each  side, 
walked  me  up  to  my  own  door,  the  touch  of  the  brass  knob 
made  my  blood  run  cold.  But  do  not  think  that  Mrs.  Slack- 
water  is  a  tartar,  my  good  friends,  because  I  thus  shrunk 
from  home  ;  the  fact  was  that  I  had,  while  abroad,  called  to 
mind  the  fate  of  her  twenty-five  cent  piece,  which  I  had 
invested  in  smoke,  that  is  to  say,  cigars,  and  I  feared  to 
think  of  her  comments  on  my  pantaloons  pocket. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  some  months  ;  we  were  poor  to 
begin  with,  and  grew  poorer,  or,  at  any  rate,  no  richer,  fast. 
Times  grew  worse  and  worse  ;  my  pockets  seemed  weaker 
and  weaker.  Even  my  pocket-book  was  no  longer  to  be 
trusted  ;  the  rags  slipped  from  it  in  a  manner  most  incredible 
to  relate.  As  an  Irish  song  says,  — 

"And  such  was  the  fate  of  poor  Paddy  O'Moore, 
As  Ins  purse  had  the  more  rents,  so  lie  had  the  fewer." 

At  length,  one  day  my  wife  came  in  with  a  subscription- 
paper  for  the  Orphan  Asylum.  I  looked  at  it,  and  sighed, 
and  picked  my  teeth,  and  shook  my  head,  and  handed  it 
back  to  her. 

"  Ned  Bowen,"  she  said,  "  has  put  down  ten  dollars." 
"The  more  shame  to  him,"  I  replied;  "he  can't  afford 


THE    HOLE    IN    MY    POCKET.  519 

it ;  he  can  just  scrape  along  any  how,  and  in  these  times 
it  aint  right  for  him  to  do  it." 

My  wife  smiled  in  her  sad  way,  and  took  the  paper  to 
him  that  brought  it. 

The  next  evening  she  asked  me  if  I  could  go  with  her  to 
see  the  Bowens,  and,  as  I  had  no  objection,  we  started. 

I  knew  that  Ned  Bowen  did  a  small  business  that  would 
give  him  about  six  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and  I  thought  it 
would  be  worth  while  to  see  what  that  sum  would  do  in  the 
way  of  housekeeping.  We  were  admitted  by  Ned  and  wel- 
comed by  Ned's  wife,  a  very  neat  little  body,  of  whom  Mrs. 
Slackwater  had  told  me  a  great  deal,  as  they  had  been 
schoolmates.  All  was  as  nice  as  wax,  and  yet  as  substan- 
tial as  iron  ;  comfort  was  written  all  over  the  room.  The 
evening  passed  somehow  or  other,  though  we  had  no  refresh- 
ments, —  an  article  which  we  never  have  at  home,  but  al- 
ways want  when  elsewhere,  —  and  I  returned  to  our  own 
establishment  with  mingled  pleasure  and  chagrin. 

"  What  a  pity,"  said  I  to  my  wife,  "  that  Bowen  don't 
keep  within  his  income." 

"  He  does,"  she  replied. 

"  But  how  can  he  on  six  hundred  dollars,"  was  my  an- 
swer, "  if  he  gives  ten  dollars  to  this  charity,  and  five  dollars 
to  that,  and  lives  so  snug  and  comfortable,  too  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Slackwater. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  can." 

u  His  wife,"  said  my  wife,  "  finds  it  just  as  easy  to  go 
without  twenty  or  thirty  dollars  of  ribbons  and  laces  as  to 
buy  them.  They  have  no  fruit  but  what  they  raise  and 
have  given  them  by  country  friends,  whom  they  repay  by  a 
thousand  little  acts  of  kindness.  They  use  no  beer,  which  is 
not  essential  to  health,  as  it  is  not  to  yours;  and  then  he 
buys  no  cigars,  or  ice-cream,  or  apples  at  one  hundred  per 
cent,  on  market  price,  or  oranges  at  twelve  cents  apiece, 
or  candy,  or  new  novels,  or  rare  works  that  are  stiil  more 


520  THE    HOLE    IX    MY    POCKET. 

rarely  used  ;  in  short,  my  dear  Mr.  Slackwater,  he  lias  no 
hole  in  his  pocket.'''' 

It  was  the  first  word  of  suspicion  my  wife  had  uttered  on 
the  subject,  and  it  cut  me  to  the  quick.  Cut  me  ?  I  should 
rather  say  it  sewed  me  up,  —  ine  and  my  pockets,  too; 
tliev  have  never  had  holes  in  them  since  that  evening. 


THE   ONE   TRUE    CONVERT. 


SOME  who  read  this  sketch  will  remember  a  lady,  not 
many  years  since  a  resident  of  the  West,  whose  great  per- 
sonal beauty  and  varied  attractions  were  less  remarkable 
than  the  simplicity  of  her  manners,  and  her  apparent  un- 
consciousness that  she  was  either  beautiful  or  attractive.  I 
lately  became  acquainted  with  an  incident  of  this  lady's 
early  history,  which  may  not  be  without  interest,  even  to 
those  that  never  met  her. 

When  about  thirteen  years  old,  she  was  placed  at  school 
in  a  small  New  England  village,  the  clergyman  of  which 
was  a  relative  of  her  father  ;  and  she  lived,  of  course,  in 
the  pastor's  family.  In  that  family  was  also  residing  a 
young  student  of  divinity,  —  one  of  those  bashful  Northern 
youths,  who  blush  when  their  mothers  speak  to  them,  and 
tremble  when  a  strange  face  draws  nigh,  —  one  of  that  class 
from  which  have  come  many  of  the  purest  and  noblest  of 
New  England's  sons,  but  a  large  proportion  of  which,  after 
struggles  and  sufferings  of  which  the  world  has  no  record, 
droop,  and  in  silence  pass  away.  Leonard  was  awkward, 
reserved,  and  diffident ;  the  coming  of  a  little  girl  to  the  ta- 
ble made  him  for  a  while  unhappy,  and  he  listened  before 
he  opened  his  door  for  fear  he  should  meet  her  on  the 
stairs.  This  continued  for  some  time  ;  for  though  the 
bright,  quiet,  fearless-child  produced  a  pleasant  impression 
44* 


522  THE    ONE    TRUE    CONVERT. 

upon  him,  he  could  not  sh;ike  off  his  horror  of  a  new  per- 
son in  the  house  ;  and  three  months  after  they  had  heen 
first  sheltered  hy  the  same  roof,  he  would  have  gone  a  mile 
round  in  the  dusty  road,  or  would  have  crossed  the  wet 
fields  of  a  dewy  morning,  rather  than  pass  his  fellow-boarder 
as  she  tripped  to  her  school-room. 

But  so  lovely  and  loving  a  damsel  as  the  one  I  write  of 
could  not  remain  averse  to  him.  With  surprise,  and  almost 
terror,  Leonard  found  himself  looking  at  her,  as  she  sat 
reading  under  the  trees,  for  ten  minutes  at  a  time.  Then 
he  offered  her  the  milk-pitcher,  or  a  baked  apple,  as  they  sat 
opposite  to  each  other  at  the  tea-table.  By  and  by  he  spoke 
to  her;  explained  to  her  dark  passages  in  the  books  she  was 
reading,  and  called  her  attention  to  books  she  had  not  before 
heard  of.  The  grass  plat  under  the  elm  was  no  longer  the 
less  pleasant  because  she  was  chasing  the  butterflies  there  ; 
and  more  than  once  the  villagers  met  him  at  evening  walk- 
ing with  her  by  the  rocky  river,  holding  her  slight  fingers 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  pointing  out  the  constella- 
tions, the  Dipper,  Cleopatra's  Chair,  and  all  the  wonders  of 
night.  Slowly,  unaware  to  himself,  and  wholly  beyond  her 
dreams,  a  strong  interest,  deepening  into  affection  for  her, 
grew  up  in  Leonard's  bosom.  When  she  was  present  he 
was  happy,  though  he  looked  the  other  way  ;  when  she  was 
absent  his  heart  fell  down,  the  sun  had  no  brightness,  the  air 
no  freshness,  for  him. 

Month  after  month  rolled  by,  and  every  day  broke  upon 
the  student  with  new  glory,  for  his  little  friend  came  to  him 
each  day  with  increased  frankness,  and  he,  on  his  part,  was 
ever  more  kind  to  her  and  to  others  ;  for  it  is  one  of  the 
many  blessed  consequences  of  love  in  a  healthy  spirit,  that 
it  makes  it  more  kindly  to  the  whole  world. 

Month  after  month  rolled  by  ;  the  time  drew  near  for  the 
student  to  go  to  his  college,  and  he  counted  calmly,  but  with 
a  full  heart,  the  days  that  were  to  pass  before  his  depart- 


THE    ONE    TRUE    CONVERT.  523 

ure.  Day  went  after  day  ;  and  now  but -two  remained  be- 
fore he  was  to  be  separated,  probably  for  ever,  from  the  first 
human  being  who  had  taken  a  strong  hold  of  his  slow  but 
deep  affections. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  before  his  departure, 
as  he  was  sitting  musing  in  his  room,  his  little  friend  came 
in.  He  had  been  with  her  that  day  upon  some  long  talked 
of  expedition,  and  had  been  kinder  than  usual ;  and  with  a 
bright  eye  and  kindling  cheek,  she  now  thanked  him  for  his 
kindness. 

"  What  have  I  done  that  you  should  be  so  good  to  me  ?  " 
said  she. 

"  You  have  been  good  to  others,"  replied  Leonard. 

"And  how  can  I  repay  you  ?"  asked  the  little  girl. 

For  some  minutes  the  young  man  was  silent;  then,  taking 
both  her  hands  in  his,  he  said,  —  "  My  dear  little  girl,  in  a 
few  hours  you  and  I  are  to  separate,  perhaps  for  ever  in  this 
life  ;  and  I  will  tell  you  all  that  I  would  ever  ask  you  to  do 
in  return  for  whatever  kindness  I  have  been  able  to  show 
you  ;  it  is  to  be  true  to  yourself,  to  your  own  pure  and  high 
impulses.  In  a  few  years  you  will  go  into  society  ;  you  will 
be  told  that  you  are  beautiful,  amiable,  talented  ;  every 
temptation  that  would  lead  you  to  forget  that  there  is  an 
eternal  life  beyond  this  will  be  thrown  in  your  Avay.  When 
those  days  come,  remember  what  I  have  so  often  said  to  you 
respecting  the  eternal  nature  of  true  affection,  and  seek  it ; 
remember  the  short-lived  nature  of  admiration,  and  shun  it. 
When  flatterers  are  telling  you  (as  they  will  tell  you)  of 
your  perfections,  do  not  forget  that  you  are  still  as  far  from 
perfection  as  from  those  stars  about  which  we  have  talked 
together  so  often  ;  think,  my  dear  girl,  in  that  hour,  of  those 
ever-burning  worlds,  and  the  thought  will  shield  you  from 
harm."  He  kissed  her  forehead,  and  she  left  him. 

In  due  time  Leonard  went  to  Andover ;  he  there  com- 
pleted his  theological  education,  and  became,  at  length,  the 


524  THE    O.\E    TRUE    CONVERT. 

clergyman  of  his  native  village.  Seven  years  passed  on  ; 
during  five  of  them  he  heard  nothing  of  her  whose  form 
often  floated  before  him  in  the  light  of  the  autumn  sunset, 
and  whose  voice  he  heard  in  the  still  summer  twilight  and 
the  dark  storm  of  winter.  But  in  the  sixth  year  after  he 
left  her  uncle's  house,  rumors  came  from  Boston  of  one, 
now  about  to  enter  the  fashionable  world,  whose  beauty  and 
whose  character  were  unequalled.  The  familiar  name  made 
his  heart  leap  to  his  throat,  and  now  again  at  midnight  his 
voiceless  prayer  went  up  for  the  child  he  had  loved  so  well. 
Whenever  a  stranger  came  from  the  city,  Leonard  listened, 
half  in  fear,  half  in  hope,  for  news  of  her  welfare.  Was  she 
loved  by  those  about  her  ?  or,  was  she  a  belle  merely  ? 
As  those  questions  were  answered,  his  thoughts  were  pleas- 
ant or  disturbed. 

He  had  long  been  an  invalid,  and  for  a  vear  or  two  the 
evidences  of  pulmonary  disease  were  such  as  to  lead  his 
society  to  ofier  him  leave  of  absence  for  the  winter  ;  this  he 
had  refused  to  accept,  however,  as  his  widowed  mother 
would  be  left  alone.  The  agitation  of  feeling  produced  by 
the  revival  of  his  old  affection  now  added  to  the  symptoms 
of  his  disease ;  lie  became  too  weak  to  preach,  and,  after 
much  persuasion,  was  induced  to  leave  home  for  a  warmer 
climate.  By  the  advice  of  his  physician,  he  went  to  Bos- 
ton to  take  passage  for  Florida. 

While  at  Boston,  he  was  invited  to  a  party,  at  which  were 
many  of  the  leaders  of  fashion,  though  the  lady  of  the  house 
was  by  no  means  one  of  them.  Leonard  went,  with 

"  Hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope," 

nor  had  he  been  long  in  the  room  before  his  eye  fell  upon 
one,  whom,  through  the  change  of  years,  he  knew  to  be  her 
whose  unconscious  influence  over  him  had  been  so  great. 
Turning  to  an  acquaintance,  he  asked  her  name. 

"  She  is  one,"  was  the  answer,  "  who  seems  to  live   in 


THE    ONE   TRUE    CONVERT.  525 

a  magic  circle.  The  sneers  of  society  stop  when  they  come 
to  her  in  their  round  of  abuse,  and  go  by  silently  ;  scandal 
cannot  touch  her.  She  is  admired,  of  course,  but  loved  far 
more  than  admired  ;  and  the  impure,  that  cannot  love, 
fear  her.  Flattery  falls  upon  her,  but  does  no  harm ;  and 
our  common  fops  dare  not  approach  her  with  their  emp- 
ty compliments,  for  her  simple,  sincere  spirit  overawes 
them." 

The  young  divine  stood  long  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
form  which  in  its  girlhood  he  had  so  loved  to  look  on,  every 
breath  he  drew  marking  the  pulsation  of  his  heart,  and 
his  head  throbbing  as  in  a  fever.  By  and  by  he  moved 
nearer  to  her.  A  man  distinguished  and  talented  sat  by  her 
side,  and  with  the  greatest  skill  addressed  to  her  the  most 
flattering  remarks,  and  listened  to  her  replies  as  to  an  ora- 
cle ;  but  not  a  word  or  look  on  her  part  betrayed  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  admiration  which  he  expressed.  When 
he  left  her,  a  female  friend  that  had  listened  to  him  said  to 
her,  —  "How  in  the  world  is  it  that  such  attentions,  from 
such  a  man,  do  not  prove  too  much  for  your  philosophy  ?  " 

"  It  is  because  my  philosophy  asks  love  which  will  lives 
not  admiration,  which  will  die." 

"  But  how  do  you  keep  such  things  in  mind  at  such  a  mo- 
ment ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  answered  the  fair  girl,  smiling ;  "  but 
what  I  say  will  have  no  meaning  to  you,  though  there  is  one 
somewhere  who  would  understand  me.  When  my  head 
begins  to  swim,  I  think  of  the  STARS." 

Not  a  word  of  that  reply  escaped  the  invalid,  as  he  stood 
behind  her  ;  the  throbbing  in  his  head  ceased,  his  heart  was 
still,  his  spirit  at  rest.  "  I  have  saved  her,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, and  soon  returned  to  his  lodgings. 

The  next  morning  he  left,  not  for  Florida,  but  for  home  ; 
he  told  his  mother  that  he  was  well  again,  and  for  a  week 
or  two  appeared  strong  and  happy.  Then  came  the  reac- 


526  THE    ONE    TRUE    CONVERT. 

tion  and  relapse,  and  he  was  weaker  than  ever  ;  for  the  rest 
of  the  winter  he  was  confined  to  his  house. 

At  length,  one  mild  March  day,  Leonard  mounted  his 
horse,  and  telling  his  mother  that  he  should  be  gone  a  day, 
rode  over  to  the  village  where  lie  had  resided  previously  to 
entering  the  divinity  school.  Leaving  his  horse  at  the  tav- 
ern, he  went  on  foot  over  the  route  which  he  had  walked, 
seven  years  previous,  with  her,  the  last  time  they  walked  to- 
gether. Then  he  went  to  the  parsonage-house,  up  into  his 
old  room,  and  sat  in  the  chair  which  he  sat  in  when  he  gave 
her  his  last  advice,  that  which  she  had  so  well  remembered. 
There  was  the  same  spreading  elm-tree;  the  tan-yard  with 
its  piles  of  bark  ;  the  hill,  where  they  had  gathered  blue- 
berries, in  the  distance,  —  all  as  he  had  seen  them  that 
evening  after  she  left  him  ;  the  same  picture  of  the  Prodigal 
Son  hung  against  the  wall  over  the  mantel-piece  ;  the  same 
clock  ticked  on  the  stairway.  The  feelings  which  rise  when 
old  scenes  are  visited  all  know,  but  none  can  describe. 

He  slept  that  night  in  his  old  room,  and  in  the  morning 
returned  home.  When  he  reached  home  his  frame  was 
chilled,  and  his  feet  very  cold  ;  so  he  sat  down  by  the  fire, 
and  his  mother  took  his  feet  in  her  lap  and  chafed  them. 
Leonard  lay  for  some  time  leaning  back,  with  his  eyes 
closed  ;  but  at  last,  raising  himself,  not  without  an  effort, 
for  he  was  very  weak,  he  said,  —  "  Mother,  I  have  saved 
her ;  I  have  made  one  true  convert."  The  old  lady  was 
deaf,  and  thought  he  spoke  of  having  saved  his  own  life  by 
his  journey.  So  she  smiled  and  went  on  chafing  his  feet ; 
but  they  grew  colder  and  colder.  She  asked  him  how  he 
was,  but  he  made  no  answer ;  she  looked  up,  and  his  chest 
was  rising  and  falling  as  gently  arid  regularly  as  that  of  a 
sleeping  child.  But  still  his  feet  grew  more  icy  ;  she  felt  of 
his  legs,  and  they  "  were  as  cold  as  any  stone."  The  old 
woman,  now  alarmed,  rose  up  ;  Leonard's  head  lay  back, 
his  eyes  half  closed,  his  lips  just  moving.  "  I  have  saved 


THE    ONE    TRUE    CONVERT.  527 

her,"  he  said  once  again,  as  his  mother  believed  afterwards, 
though  then  she  scarce  noticed  the  motion  ;  a  convulsive 
smile  passed  over  his  features,  and  she  was  left  standing  by 
the  clay  that  her  son  had  dwelt  in. 


END    OF    VOL.    I. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY    AC  L1TY 


A  A      000018660    1 


